


Flight of the Dragons

by Sith_Happens4116



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Sansa Stark, Blood Magic, Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Dragon Riders, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Targaryen Restoration, Valyrian Steel Swords, Warg Sansa Stark, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildling Rickon Stark, Wildling Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27812470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sith_Happens4116/pseuds/Sith_Happens4116
Summary: Daeron Targaryen fights to survive in the fiery land of Valyria, with nothing more but his friends and a exiled lord of Westeros, whom had fled the tyranny of Tywin Lannister. The fire is no comfort, as it is only death.While; Lyarra Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, finds herself in the cold bitter lands of the far North. Fear seems to be all she knows as the Lords of Westeros vow to have her head on a spike, she is nothing but the song of a tale that has been sung.The daughter of a Prince.And yet, it has finally come, the song of ice and fire has begun.
Relationships: Jaqen H'ghar/Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 205





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, okay this is going to be a wild ride folks! None of the characters belong to me obviously, and most of the plot line is based of the books that were written by the great G. R. R. Martin! I most definitely won’t be following the TV series plot. Because fuck season eight, nope! Nada! Not happening. This book will be massive though and will take me a while to complete. Part one will only have Daeron and Lyarra as the main characters but more will be added later on. And YES. For clarification for those that are confused, Sansa will become a wildling. Because I really wanted her to become a BAMF who wields a sword in the show. But alas, that didn’t happen when she escaped from the Lannisters (or in the book). So I shall have to fix it myself! Hope you guys enjoy it.

**HIS** brother had sold him as if he were nothing. “You can have him for. He’s worth all the gold. A Targaryen slave always is.” 

Daeron had struggled and cried out, piercing fear consuming his heart as he was led away from his older brother, Viserys. Who, at the time, had his eye on the bag of gold that he clenched tightly in his hands. “Brother!” He had screamed from the top of his lungs but his voice wasn’t to be heard. 

“Come now,” ordered the soldier. Flanked in the strangest of armour that he had ever seen. The men lead him towards a ship that Daeron would notice anywhere, The Baanturii were a Sellsword company that went wherever their commander ordered. They were cruel and the cause of much death, Daeron had heard of them before. Whispers on the streets of Volantis, about the stink of death and cruelty that most ran from. Their soldiers were all sold, not a  _ single  _ one had escaped from the chains of their slavery. Forever to slaughter in the name of their men, like utter  _ savages.  _ And in his heart, Daeron lost hope. 

As there was none to be found. Daeron knew that they wouldn’t give a  _ whit  _ that he was a Prince of Dragonstone. It was all for nothing, when the only home that he had ever heard from was gone and far across the sea. Out of reach completely. House Targaryen was lost, his brother was hardly anything to smile about,  _ obviously.  _ As Daeron sat in the rank prison he knew that if he were to escape from his chains, despite his youthful age of four and ten, Daeron would strike him down. Like the filthy disease he was. 

Viserys would beg, and mercy wouldn’t be granted. At the age of four and ten, Daeron Targaryen, of all people, was introduced to cruelty. And it would fester, an ache that would never leave his heart and flesh. Viserys Targaryen would be the ruin of his own making, perhaps he ought not to have sold his younger brother. But it was  _ far  _ too late for that. 

Daeron scowled, wiping the tears away from his eyes furiously. Glancing at the old wooden cell, there wasn’t all that much too it. He glanced at the various blood stains on the walls in caution, but he supposed it wasn’t all that much of a surprise. The Baanturii were known for their callous behaviour, they weren’t all that different from pirates  _ or  _ the Dothraki. So his old friend Alys had whispered, claiming that they were brutal on the battle ground. He rubbed his wrists furiously, hissing at the welts that were marked across them. 

“Don’t do that,” said Alysanne. “You’ll only irritate them.” His only friend smiled softly, the young woman had been sold along with him. Daeron could  _ still  _ remember his elder brother cackling, claiming he ought to have the company of his oldest friend. He gritted his teeth, fingernails digging into the pale flesh of his palms. Alysanne, who was from Westeros herself, shuffled closer to him in the darkness that seemed to have consumed them. The twinkling stars that shone from outside their barred window was a beautiful sight, perhaps the only one in such a place as this. Daeron couldn’t help but wonder if there would be any escape for either of them, when it came to the art of forming warriors they cared little if one was a woman and the other a man. 

“We’re not going to be able to escape.” 

Alys only smiled sadly. “No,” she said with all the agreement of a condemned woman. “They won’t care about what we do until we’re like them. At  _ least  _ Viserys didn’t sell us to the Usurper.” 

Daeron snorted, he knew well enough that his brother was far too gone. A sense of sickly madness lingered in him, one that had lived in his father if Alys was to be believed. Although Viserys clearly cared little for him, there was enough left of his elder brother  _ not  _ to sell him to the Baratheon King. But, there might be a point in time where his own paranoid nature got the better of Viserys. Daeron, unfortunately, couldn’t put it past him in trying to kill his little brother. All so, in his own mind, Daeron wasn’t a threat to the throne that he so dearly loved. 

The door was bolted open, the man that stared down at them was  _ strange.  _ Exactly what Daeron thought a pirate would look like as a child, he even had the wooden leg to prove it. He glanced back at his friend who raised a brow, they both knew it was only going to get better  _ or  _ worse. He desperately tried not to think about what was worse, perhaps they were cannibals and enjoyed the sweet taste of human flesh?  _ Seven hells,  _ he hoped to all the gods that it wasn’t what they wanted. 

Alys and himself were dragged from the cell, there was no kindness to be found here. The men that greeted them, and a few women, were dressed well and their weaponry could be classed as  _ fine.  _ But Daeron saw the darkness that lingered in their cold dark eyes, although not all of them were like that. A few in the back, and another to the side only bore sadness. The guards pushed them to the ground, against the wet wood that had been sprayed by the recent storm. The man that stood before them almost looked to be Valyrian, with hair as silver as the moon itself and his  _ eyes,  _ they were the brightest purple that he had ever seen. Unnatural in their glow. And the man himself, he stared at them with all the arrogance in the world. 

“New recruits, I assume?” 

Daeron tried with all his might to swallow his fear,  _ the dragon remembers,  _ whispered the voice of his elder brother. A reminder of the betrayal that had placed him and his friend in the grip of these men. He hardly knew if they would live to see the next day, he gripped her hand tightly in his own. Raising his chin with all the spirit he could afford, not that there was much, and stared. Looking into those bright eyes that weren’t all that much different from his own. Alys trembled beside him, afraid as much as he was, Daeron knew so. 

He could care little for that petty land across the sea that had so harshly stolen from his family. His whole life, all he had known was Essos. But in  _ this,  _ his brother was right, the dragon would remember. His heart burned for revenge against his own kin, the boy that had sold him as if he were nothing at all. Daeron didn’t often like to think of their family, and what had become of them. Nothing but misery could be greeted from such thoughts as these. 

But perhaps Viserys had never loved him, and that hatred for Daeron had rested in his brother’s heart, festering as every disease and wound ought too. He knew very well that the death of his mother was on his own hands, she had bled to death after his birth. When he had only cried and wailed, screaming for the love of his mother that he could never have. Since that tragic night all that Daeron had known was the food from the streets and the abusive grasp of his elder brother. A boy that despised him with all his being. Daeron shook his head in thought, a fierce sneer on his lips at the very  _ thought  _ of Viserys Targaryen, a man who thought himself to be king.

_ He is no King.  _

A stranger parted the crowd as he brought with him a whip and a strange dagger. Daeron had gasped at the sight and  _ feel  _ of the magic that came from it. He was no normal believer in such things, but he could  _ feel it.  _ And that made all the difference, Daeron and Alysanne looked on in indifference as the whip came down harshly on their back. Long fingernails dug into his pale skin as his only friend refused to gasp in agony. The pain was unbelievable, Daeron was only  _ barely  _ grateful that they hadn’t harmed them without their clothing. That would’ve been an act of pure degradation. The dagger was slipped through the cotton of their clothes and into the red marks on their back. Bleeding the blood in which they possessed, into what he believed was Valyrian Steel. And all Daeron could feel was a sense of numbing cold, even if the summer air was foggy and  _ hot.  _

The strange man murmured an ancient tongue under his breath, Daeron could very barely understand the words. Some were High Valyrian, and the horror of them instilled such fear in his heart. ‘ _ Bind them to me’,  _ and then the burning fires in his blood stopped. And he knew, although his heart was bitter at such knowledge as this. He had been enslaved, by the hand of a man that knew the ancient magic of Valyria. How could he possibly afford to fight against a man such as that? And in that moment he wished for Braavos, the first home he had ever known. Where those that were loyal had perished, either murdered by the hands of the Usurpers men or assassins that were sent. He craved for nothing more than the comfort of what he once knew. 

Daeron had spent most of his life running from the Usurper and his men. They would think him dead, he supposed sighing in relief at that was foolish as he was hardly safe. These men that laughed about the cruelty he was handed were insidious, and he knew that as much as everyone else on the blasted ship. 

But he held strong, he would need  _ everything  _ of his sense to survive this. And when he did, the revenge that he wished on his brother would come. Daeron bit his tongue fiercely, fighting the rage that seemed to have made a home for itself amongst his battered and bruised soul. Of the kind that had lived a hard life, and this was nothing new to him. Simply another obstacle to jump, but he didn’t know  _ how.  _ He trembled amongst the uselessness he felt. What was he to do? Such men as these couldn’t be fought. 

“Stand,” hissed the Captain. Forcing them both on their feet, Alys stumbled against him. The pain that she expressed was grievous. And all  _ their fault!  _

“You will both listen to me well and good if you want to survive. You  _ both  _ will be awakened before the sun rises, and then you will train and once the third month has passed you shall see your very first battle. If you survive, your place amongst us all as a warrior will be given. And no longer will you be our slave, but one of us.”

Daeron had nothing to say to that so he held his tongue, it was this or death. How had his life come to this? He cursed them all. The Baratheons, Starks, Lannisters, Arryn, Tully and most of all,  _ Viserys Targaryen.  _

But Daeron knew it could be worse, his brother at the least hadn’t sold him to the Dothraki. He had heard rumours of what they did to their slaves, they cared little if they lived or died. All they were good for was fucking, or that’s what his brother had once said. But Daeron had long ago learnt that mostly  _ everything  _ Viserys said held little truth to it. The Dothraki were savages, so perhaps his words had some truth to it. But the same could be said for the Bantaarii. 

They were dismissed to the kitchens with so much as a wave of the hand. Daeron swallowed his bitter misery, the kitchen was as bare and miserable as the rest of the ship. The only pleasant company was Missandei who had been brought to cook them food of all kinds as she was quite gifted in regards to that. 

“I’m not a cook, my mother taught me to cook well enough. But my previous master used to use me as a Translator.” 

Or so she claimed. 

The young woman wasn’t that much younger than himself. With lovely brown eyes, tanned skin and luscious curls. She was beautiful, this he knew, but her manner was innocent despite being that of a slave. Daeron supposed she was fortunate in that regard, as he had met plenty of pillow slaves that were hardly willing. Alys smiled softly at the girl as she placed a warm bowl of soup and bread before them. Informing she heard it was a common food from Westeros, Daeron had glanced at it in current interest. For was it  _ really?  _

“Soup seems rather plain,” he muttered.

Missandei simply shrugged. “I’m no expert. It’s from the North.” 

Daeron blinked, but supposed it was true with the way Alys was devouring it as if it were the sustenance of life itself. But there was some truth to that, perhaps. He shook his head, pale white curls shifting under the calm breeze that flew in through the small hole that could barely be considered a window. The taste wasn’t as bland as he assumed it would be, it was exotic and different. But that was to be expected. 

When all the food was gone, except for Alys who was still nibbling on her bread, Daeron leaned forward. Peeking out the whole, trying to see where they might be. But nothing could be seen except for the crashing waves and the clear night sky. He huffed, stepping back from the wall, the wooden barriers of Missandei’s own prison cell. She was clearly well looked after, judging by the healthy flush on her cheeks and the warm silk gown she wore. Draped over her tanned skin in the colour of the endless and restless ocean that laid before them and the land they sought. Alys seemed to be infatuated with the girl, but he couldn’t blame her, Alysanne had always been attracted to pretty things. She had happily claimed it was her mother’s curse in life. 

“You won’t see much land for another three months,” said Missandei. She hesitated for a few mere seconds. “They like to train the new recruits. If they hold no skills they throw them overboard. Never to be seen again.” She seemed horrified at the prospect herself, it had become quite clear to Daeron that the girl was soft. But kind nonetheless. 

“We’ll be fine,” he said, “we both have training with a sword beforehand. I suppose this will only make us better. Has anyone ever escaped from the Baanturii?” 

“No,” Missandei said, frowning at the sight of them. Alysanne and Daeron were like the sun and the moon, night and day, when it came to the matter of how they looked. Daeron, was all that Missandei had imagined a Valyrian Prince to look like. Of course, there was Aelyx, the captain of the ship. But Missandei could  _ hardly  _ call the captain that was essentially a pirate, a  _ Prince _ . And Alysanne, who had greeted her shyly with the brightest of blue eyes she had ever seen, a soft smile and pale skin. It was her dark locks of hair, wild and true, that kept her attention. They were both beautiful, but so incredibly different. 

“They die. It is the only way of freedom. Death grants us relief. Unless…” she seemed hesitant all of a sudden. As if speaking of such things was forbidden, and perhaps on this ship it was. “There are only two ways to escape, greet death with a smile or  _ become  _ death.” 

Daeron blinked in utter bewilderment. 

“Become death?” 

“Yes,” Missandei whispered. “Kill Captain Aelyx. And the dagger is yours, but it won’t just be you that’s set free. It will be everyone. Thousands have tried, but none have managed. Captain Aelyx cannot be beaten.” 

“We’ll see about that,” murmured Daeron as he twirled the knife around in his hand. One that he had picked from the kitchen table, he had always been good with weaponry. Although he held little experience when it came to fighting another. Perhaps they would help him become  _ perfect,  _ and when the time came, he would strike. Leaving nothing but ruin of the Baanturii behind. 

“You are good with a knife,” she said with a smile. “But are you good with a sword?” 

Alys narrowed her eyes at the brunette, having no patience for her judgemental ways. 

“Daeron is the best I’ve ever known!”

Missandei simply nodded at that. “I’ll take your word for it then.” 

Daeron smiled slightly at his dear friend, Alysanne had always been loyal. “Alys, I’ll get to prove myself soon enough. And so shall you. I don’t know another who can use the bow as well as you.”

Missandei seemed less than concerned, she knew nothing of these people, and  _ yet,  _ her heart went out for them. Daeron, in his own eyes, saw the beginning of a friendship between the three of them. His father’s old Kingsguard had often told him that he had a good eye, for those that were worthy of trust and friendship. Some didn’t possess such an ability as this, and if he ever rose to the throne instead of his feeble brother it would be a good trait to carry. Not that Daeron had any intentions of doing so. 

“I wish we were back at home,” muttered Alysanne. Bringing tears to Daeron’s eyes, for they hadn’t  _ really  _ had a home in so long. Alysanne had been kicked from her home at the age of seven, she had been a young child in the streets that couldn’t find her father. The memory of her mother left a bitter taste in her mother, she was a cruel and unforgiving woman that had her head in the clouds. Alys  _ hated  _ her. But Daeron was her home, as was their small little house in Volantis. They had barely been able to afford it with the crown that Daeron had sold, Viserys had been furious with the both of them. Losing any sight and having let the rage fester, in turn, having him betray them to the Baanturii wasn’t all that much of a surprise, in the end. 

“There isn’t much left of that place,” mumbled Daeron. “I can only guess that my  _ traitor  _ of a brother has sold it. For what, I don’t know. He’ll use the gold to find an army. But I don’t think he’ll get that far…” 

Alys nodded, Viserys wouldn’t have been able to survive alone. He always had help, whether it was from the Targaryen loyalists, or those that seemed to have been fascinated with their lineage. Viserys hadn’t done it all by himself, she couldn’t help but wonder how long he would live for. Would Daeron find him in time for revenge? 

She knew her friend well, and although he wasn’t the aggressive kind, he would undoubtedly be furious with his brother for the rest of his life. And she couldn’t blame him for that, as so would she. Alys nodded at him, “Viserys won’t live for much longer. You won’t be around to soothe another’s temper when he so clearly insults another…  _ foreigner. _ ” They both knew that Viserys thought anyone that wasn’t from the proud lands of Valyria to be scum. Including herself. 

“I don’t wish death on him,” Daeron said. The smallest hint of a disdainful sneer on his lips, as there always seemed to be when he was wrathful. “Not until I find him myself. Revenge shall be sweet, Alysanne.” 

Missandei glanced at the both of them in worry, their simple thoughts on death were confusing. She wondered briefly if they belonged amongst the crew, but somehow, she  _ knew  _ they weren’t as cruel as the others. Daeron smiled as if he were the sun, bright and warm, dazzling to the eyes of many women (and some men), he was handsome. And there was a light in Alysanne’s eyes, of the kind that spoke of honour. She hoped sincerely that they could be friends, Missandei spent most of her days alone. And that, in itself, was a sad fate to live. 

Daeron glanced out the hole once more, his body drawn to the sight that would greet him. He frowned, for surely they were to be at sea for a few more months. And yet, he could see land before him. Of the kind that was clearly ruined, the Targaryen blinked in utter bewilderment. It was almost as if the sea was  _ smoke.  _ The warm boiling breeze that rushed through the kitchen was itchy, perhaps not for Daeron, but the others felt it so clearly.  _ That land is strange,  _ and he knew in his blood that it was calling to him. Unlike anything he’d ever felt before. 

He breathed in the air, as if it were something special and to be favoured. But it was just as smoky as he thought it would be, Daeron shuddered and gasped as the bindings that draw him to the dagger were pulled and snapped, as if they were nothing at all. Screams of panic and fear rang out from above, the echo of stomping feet could be heard. And Daeron  _ knew,  _ it had to be! The land that stared him right in the eye  _ had  _ to be Valyria. The home of his blood. 

“It can’t be,” whispered Missandei. “It doesn’t make any  _ sense!  _ We’re weeks away from the Smoking Sea!” Hissed the cook, bewildered at the sight of what she could see. 

But Daeron felt it right to his bones, as if the land called out to him. And perhaps Missandei was right, and  _ maybe  _ magic had called him here. There was no other answer for what they had found, as their boat was drawn to the shoreline the more the crew screamed and wailed as if they had met their very own doom. 

Daeron pressed up against the wood in insatiable curiosity as he peered out at the ruins that the boat glided past. He could almost imagine their screams, as Valyria fell away into nothing at all. But it wasn’t  _ nothing.  _ He could feel the life vibrating from the towering stone arches. Magic lived there amongst the shadows, he couldn’t exactly call it human, but they were something. Far more than nothing at all. His fingers pressed against the wood, digging into it. Daeron felt the urge to jump into the water below, fighting his way towards the land that he so desired to explore.  _ This  _ place was beautiful. Or what remained of it. 

The temples that they could see, although most of them were destroyed and burnt away, there were plenty of them that glittered under the light of the moon. And  _ when  _ had the night sky become so dark the only light came from the beaming moon and its constant companion, the glowing stars above. Daeron shuffled nervously on his feet as he saw the land coming all the more closer as they glided through the water canals, amongst the towering buildings that stood on either side. The thump of sand brushing against the side of the boat sent a jolt through them all as they tumbled to the wooden and wet ground. They gasped as the water poured in from the floor,  _ the boat was sinking.  _ Or as much as it could on the shoreline. 

Missandei and Alysanne gasped at the floor, the cook couldn’t quite believe it. “We’re in  _ Valyria.  _ How can this…” Even Daeron couldn’t quite believe the words that were being said. For it was all very absurd. 

Alys and Daeron glanced at one another before they raced up the steps to the deck above. Missandei paled at the sight before them, it was a  _ massacre.  _ There was only one man alive, a boy around their own age shivering in the corner. The rest of them were dead, with nothing upon them. They were simply a pile of pale bones. 

“Oh my,” gasped Alys. Disgusted at the sight that was before her. The boy turned to them in shock, trembling as his legs gave way beneath his feet. 

“Are you alright?” Asked Missandei. “What happened up here?”

“T-There were monsters,” stuttered the boy. Curling himself around the comfort that Missandei was giving him. “They looked like  _ dragons.  _ But I don’t think they were, they had to be too small.”

Daeron swallowed the hope that wished to rise, his whole life he had dreamed of dragons. But he most certainly didn’t want to think of the creatures that had done this. He bent down and clasped one of the soldier’s Valyrian Steel swords in his tight hands. At least, in  _ this,  _ they had protection. Alys found great interest in one of the bows, but that had always been her preferred weapon. 

Alysanne was the first of them to jump, her thick leather boots sinking into the sand. She scowled at the mud, she could very well have done without it. “Be careful coming down,” she called out with a smile. The wind rolling through her restless dark curls. 

Daeron wanted to run towards the towers with a joyful smile, his heart thudded in his chest. There was something about Valyria that was different. But even the quiet and shy Missandei seemed excited to explore the new land that was beneath her two feet. 

She had been a slave all her life, and to come across such land as this where she could go wherever she pleased, it felt like freedom. And Missandei had never quite felt that before, she bit her lip as she pulled up her skirts and trudged through the mud till she reached the stone steps that lead into the heart of Valyria. Missandei had never thought herself to be an explorer, but here she stood. Amongst the ancient stones of Valyria, and so she  _ laughed.  _

“This is amazing,” breathed Daeron. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” 

The strange blonde boy glanced around at the land with a nervous frown on his lips. “W-What if those  _ things  _ come back?”

Daeron shook his head, doubting they would. The creatures could’ve feasted on the trembling boy, and themselves, they were merely a floor down at the time.  _ No,  _ he thought,  _ they attacked the others for a reason.  _

“They won’t be back,” said Daeron. “I think they’ve had their feed. We’ll be safe for the night if we find a place to stay. I think we’re  _ meant  _ to be here. There’s no other explanation.” 

Missandei didn’t deny it either and he didn’t think she would. As it was very strange that the boat had magically found its way to the land of Valyria where plenty of others had tried and  _ died.  _ And the worst of it all, the sailors hadn’t even been intending to head in such a direction. Daeron was firm in the belief that it was fate, destiny if you will. He was so sure. 

“Where are we going to find shelter? All I can see is ruins,” muttered the strange blonde boy. 

Daeron scowled at him as they moved forward through the broken city, there wasn’t much of it left. Not from where they stood, he sighed. Placing his hands on the cold stone pillar as he began to climb, the wind running its cold and yet, burning fingers through his pale wispy strands of hair. There wasn’t much to be seen till he reached the top, that was far too high for his liking. He glanced at the rolling mist and above, he gasped. There was a  _ palace  _ in sight, untouched by the flames that seemed to have consumed the city and those that had once lived in it. 

The palace, if that was what it was, glittered under the moonlight. Beaming brighter than anything he had ever seen, climbing back to his new friends and Alysanne was much harder. He stumbled a few times, the pale chips in the pillar barely saved his life.  _ I’m never doing this again,  _ he muttered to himself. It wasn’t worth a bent neck. It never was. 

“We might need to keep walking for a few hours, but there’s a big temple up ahead.” 

Alysanne smiled, the excitement clear in her mind. For all places, they were in  _ Valyria.  _


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Lyarra attends the feast for the royal family and wishes that she could be anywhere else. Perhaps some place more mysterious? Like The Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Lyarra Snow and the silent depressed Jaime Lannister! Who might be a little OOC.

**LYARRA** supposed there were days when she cursed her mother to all the  _ seven hells,  _ after all, she hadn’t gotten her beauty from her father. Even though the King had made that clear, his lecherous gaze was enough for Lyarra to wish above all that she could bathe in a tub of wildfire. 

  
Thankfully, as a bastard of House Stark she had no place at the high table. The bench amongst those that were squires and minor lords was where she sat, and even then, the attention was far too much for her liking. People often said it was her eyes, the brightest purple that ever could be seen. Lyarra sipped at the cup of summerwine, eyeing Ser Jaime Lannister in cautiousness as he continued to gaze at her as if he had seen a ghost. Which, in itself, was absurd. As she knew very well that Winterfell wasn’t haunted. 

_ The crypts might be.  _

Winterfell was buzzing with life, far more than she was used too. There was far too much  _ Lannister  _ to the whole event. She, much like everyone else in the North, had come to despise the Lannisters. They were cruel and callous, especially when it came to the matter of Tywin Lannister. He had a heart of stone, how could he not? Lyarra knew the song  _ The Rains of Castamere.  _ The truth that laid beneath the glowing lyrics was tragic, and hideously frightening. Cersei Lannister had an air of entitlement, which she supposed was fair given the woman was the Queen of Westeros. But the air in which she stared at others was chilling, those cold green eyes could only have been inherited from her father. 

And such a look had been passed on to her eldest son, Joffrey Baratheon. For all his last name he looked far too much like a Lion. Lyarra would look back on this event with a sad smile and think that it was probably a  _ good  _ thing she had been placed amongst the squires and young lords, and  _ far  _ away from the horrible claws that was the Crown Prince. Possessing his attention isn’t what anyone should desire. 

Bitterly, Lyarra tipped back the wine glass and swallowed it with a long gulp. Her depression sinking into her, there wasn’t much else to do with her life but  _ drink.  _ And judging by her father’s disappointed gaze, she was drinking far too much. But Lyarra cared little, she glared fiercely at him with all the rage a scorned child could possess. She watched him through narrowed eyes as she poured herself another glass and sipped it quietly. Lord Stark huffed, turning his attention back to his old friend, King Robert. Lyarra picked at the meat on her plate, it was tasteless. But she blamed that on her emotionless state, it was hardly  _ her  _ fault she had been born a bastard. 

Her lord father was an honourable man, this much she knew and understood. He loved her as much as he ought too, but there was a distance that their relationship possessed. Different from the kind that was between Sansa and Lord Stark. She supposed, in her heart, that she was jealous and it was from  _ that  _ where her hatred of Sansa had been formed. Sansa received all the true love and affection from their father, while she was given hardly anything at all. And throughout her whole life that was all in which she had desired, to be  _ loved!  _

Even at ten and four she could understand that she would  _ never  _ be loved as much as she would like. And although she hated Sansa, for how could she not? The girl was perfect. She also loved her sister dearly, both of them. It was a strange relationship, but she cherished it with all that she could. Even when her sister dismissed her for the presence of Prince Joffrey Baratheon, and his father, King Robert. 

Lyarra giggled, sipping at her cup of summerwine as her youngest brother waved about his little arms at her. The boy had always adored her, much to the horror of Lady Stark. There was none in the Castle that little Rickon liked more. His brilliant beaming smile always soothed the hearts of others, for how could it not? However, it didn’t soothe Catelyn’s worries that her youngest son was  _ far  _ too close to the bastard. And perhaps this was another reason to despise her father, he had done nothing about the cruel treatment that Lady Stark had cast upon her. Surely he had cared that his  _ lady wife  _ had locked her out of Winterfell causing Lyarra to almost pass away in the most horrid conditions. It was with luck that she had survived. 

Arya had been the only reason for that, having let Lyarra in before her death. The young Stark had yet to speak to her mother in a kind manner, and she couldn’t disagree with her little sister on that matter as it was  _ her  _ life that had been in danger. Lyarra found it was much easier when she avoided Lady Stark, altogether. And perhaps her father as well. Lord Eddard seemed to frown at that, more often than not, since the locked-out-of-Winterfell event. She knew he wouldn’t take a side, the lord couldn’t. His love for the Lady Stark was too much, and above all, that broke her heart more than it should. 

Lyarra bit into the meat harshly, her anger festering at the sight of those that were joyful. This was hardly the life she was meant to live, unloved and tucked into the shadows.  _ Nobody should live like this,  _ she often thought. It was depressing and led to thoughts that were far from savoury. She tucked her arms into her thick black cloak, hiding from the lustful stares that either came from the King or the squires that sat near her. She glared fiercely, Lyarra Snow was hardly going to give them anything. And most certainly not  _ that.  _ She swallowed her disdain, of as much as her lips would allow. The sneer on her lips still seemed to be there. 

Lyarra itched to reach for her sword, the King’s wandering eyes never seemed to have moved from her. She gritted her teeth in barely concealed fury, and her father had done little against it. 

King Robert was a fat man, something that had disappointed her greatly. She was hoping to meet a warrior, a man that her father had fought proudly with. But there was little of that in him, his longing gaze had pierced her from the very moment he had walked into the Great Hall. And Lyarra couldn’t help but hate him for it, he had no  _ right.  _ Just because she was beautiful didn’t give anyone the right.

_ No,  _ thought Lyarra,  _ what frightens me the most is he’ll approach me. Even if I say no.  _

She turned her eyes to Ghost, smiling at the pale Direwolf that sat at her feet. Happily chomping on a bone that she had given him a mere few minutes ago. She huffed, that pup could clearly eat through  _ anything.  _

Lyarra drowned the rest of her cup, smiling slightly at the displeasure her father expressed. 

Chuckling, her long pale fingers stroked the fur that laid beneath her fingers. “Surely you can’t be hungry  _ again?”  _ Asked Lyarra, a bewildered smile on her lips. But Ghost simply whined, red eyes peering up at her from underneath the wooden table. She couldn’t help but sigh in exasperation, chucking her pup a leg of chicken that he growled happily at. Ghost was a savage little thing, barring his teeth and ripping into the meat as if it were the true enemy. But she could very well excuse him from that as he was a wolf, such attitude was to be expected from him. 

Lyarra sighed. Reaching up to rub her forehead as the crowd began to become all the more joyful, there delighted shouts of mirth from conspiring jokes almost became too much for her to bear. 

Ghost nuzzled against her hand, his warm affectionate eyes peering up at her own. Lyarra shuddered, it was almost as if she could sense her pup in the prisms of her own mind. An odd sensation to admit too, her own purple eyes trained on the animal that whined up at her, licking his chops. Almost as if he were asking for  _ more,  _ Lyarra simply shook her head with a laugh on her lips. Ghost’s ears sloped in a display of his quite and clear sadness, the young maiden merely snorted, never knowing how manipulative her own wolf could be. A trait she thought was rather unheard off. 

She grinned widely, patting the soft fur that rested upon his head. The Direwolf growled playfully, tugging at the sleeve on her dress. 

“Is this one of the direwolves I’ve heard so much of?” Asked her Uncle Benjen, smiling affectionately at her with his dark cloak wrapped around him as if it were a sense of protection. 

Lyarra nodded, her long pale fingers running through the white fur. “Yes,” she said with a sweet smile. “His name is Ghost.” 

Uncle Benjen glanced at the three empty golden cups of what was once summerwine, he sniffed it with a raised brow. Glancing at Lyarra and her rather glum frown, but that was hardly anything new. The girl often wore that as an everyday expression, ruining the beauty she so easily possessed. He chuckled, pouring himself a cup to enjoy. “Summerwine. Nothing so sweet.  _ Please  _ tell me you haven’t had more than three cups, Lyarra?” 

Lyarra frowned, pouring herself another under the watchful gaze of her uncle. 

“This is my fifth.”

Uncle Benjen looked flabbergasted but grudgingly impressed at the intake of alcohol. 

“That’s impressive. I was younger than you when I had my first drink, and I got well and  _ truly  _ drunk.” He gulped down the rest as if it were nothing, Lyarra couldn’t help but wonder if having a limitless talent at drinking alcohol was normal in the Stark bloodline. 

She glanced at the cloak he wore, incredibly black. Lyarra couldn’t help but wish that it was  _ her,  _ she had so desperately wanted to join the Night’s Watch since she was seven, and had been heartbroken when Theon had told her she couldn’t because she was a woman. Lyarra had never truly believed being a lady was horrible until that very moment in time, she wished for nothing more than to be a man. Uncle Benjen laughed quietly as Ghost ate at one of the onions that had fallen at his pale paws. 

“A  _ very  _ quiet wolf,” murmured Uncle Benjen. Lyarra often thought him and Ghost were quite alike, both pale and quiet, themselves. 

“He’s not like the other wolves,” Lyarra said. “You can never hear Ghost. It’s why I named him that, and because he’s white. All the others are dark grey or black.” 

Her uncle shook his head with a wide smile stretched on his lips. “There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings.” He paused, that soft smile faltering. “Don’t you usually eat with the family?” 

Lyarra shrugged, digging into the bread with a knife that she had previously reached over for. 

“More often than not,” she grumbled with a frown. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.” 

“Ah,” murmured Benjen. Despising the heartbreak that was so often on Lyarra’s face. The beauty that looked so much like  _ Lyanna.  _ “Your father doesn’t seem very festive tonight.” 

Lyarra bit into the bread aggressively, glancing up at her father. Her fingers clenching against the soft bread, anger at being left out tasted bitter on her tongue. But her father, despite all his faults, smiled softly at Lyarra. The most relaxed expression she had seen on his face all night, it was hard not to notice. Lyarra had known her father all her life, the man was rather obvious in what he thought. She glanced once more at the table, hardly  _ anyone  _ looked joyous. Except for the King and his uncomfortably lustful gaze. 

Lyarra sighed, “The Queen is angry too. I don’t think she liked the King going to the crypts, he was going to see Aunt Lyanna, I think…” 

Benjen looked to his niece at that, gazing into those bright amethyst eyes of hers. He had never noticed it before, for he had never truly looked. Lyarra looked remarkably like Queen Rhaella, how couldn’t he have noticed? 

She prodded at the meat on her plate with the silver fork grumpily. “The King’s obsessed with anything involving Aunt Lyanna. He was  _ staring  _ at Arya earlier,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It’s gross. She’s only nine!” 

“I’ve noticed he’s looked at you quite a bit.” 

“Father doesn’t like it, I can tell. Nor do  _ I.  _ He’s always staring, I’m not my Aunt, neither is Arya. Why should we be stared at in such a manner!” Huffed a rather infuriated Lyarra, glaring at the King and his lecherous gaze that either followed her or a maid. 

Uncle Benjen shuddered at the thought, pouring himself some more wine. “The King isn’t for you, nor will he ever be.” 

“Why?” Spat Lyarra. “Because I’m a  _ bastard! _ ” Her bright purple eyes flashed with a sudden sense of rage, it boiled in her veins. Like nothing else she had ever felt before. 

“Don’t be absurd. It’s because the man’s married, and to a  _ Lannister  _ at that. You can’t tell me you actually desire the King?” Asked Benjen incredulously, one eyebrow raised. 

Lyarra blushed prettily, glancing down at the meat on her plate with much more interest. She shook her head furiously. “No,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t want that, or his attention. I-I just, really  _ hate  _ being a bastard.” 

Uncle Benjen kindly took her hand into his own, stroking the pale flesh with the palm of his hand. The only comfort that she had been given throughout the night, as sad as it was. “You are beautiful, my dear. And it matters little if you're a bastard or Trueborn. One day, you will marry a Lord. No! Listen! You will, your father and brothers won’t allow for anything else. Even that Greyjoy boy of yours is ridiculously protective.” 

Lyarra smiled softly. “Theon is a good friend,” the laughter on her lips was kind and genuine. “He’s always been a little  _ too  _ protective. Father never approved. Do you really think I’ll marry well, Uncle?” She asked, frowning at the thought. “I don’t know if I actually wish to wed either…” 

The lords of the North had never truly appealed to her, they never had. She doubted the lords of the South would either, and Southrons were so much  _ worse.  _ Or that’s what she had been told by Lord Glover, and Lyarra didn’t disagree with that, for what did she know? And Prince Joffrey was hardly of any high interest,  _ yes,  _ he was pretty. But in those eyes there was a coldness to them, a ferocious green sheen that was like ice. Lifeless, like his mother’s. It couldn’t very well be inherited as Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella bore all the kindness that their mother and father lacked. 

Uncle Benjen merely thought her words were rather humorous. “Your Aunt Lyanna didn’t wish to marry either! She would’ve much preferred the company of her horse Balerion than any man,” he leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Even  _ Robert Baratheon.  _ Oh how she hated him!” 

Lyarra blinked in surprise. “Aunt Lyanna hated King Robert? I thought they were betrothed!”

“They were. But my sister had never favoured his company, the King was more than often feeding his lusts in the presence of… whores.” 

“Oh,” murmured Lyarra. 

“She was quite infatuated with the Prince,” whispered Uncle Benjen quietly. Looking at Lyarra as if he wished for her to know that Lyanna  _ hadn’t  _ hated Prince Rhaegar. 

“But didn’t the prince, well,  _ abduct  _ her?”

Uncle Benjen shook his head. “Don’t tell anyone this, King Robert would call for your head. Despite his clear infatuation with you. Lyanna  _ loved  _ Prince Rhaegar. I knew. I was there.”

Lustre nodded, the shock couldn’t have been anymore numbing. But her chest couldn’t help but swell in pride that her Uncle Benjrn trusted her with such a well kept secret. 

Her uncle took another bite from a piece of ham, snatching it from her plate before Lyarra could protest. Not that it was anything new, it was a rather foul habit that her uncle had gathered over the years. 

“A secret between us,” smiled Benjen as he patted her hand gently. “I’ll be back later before the night is over. I must go and greet my brother, he clearly isn’t faring well. Den of snakes, the lot of them.  _ Southrons. _ ” 

Lyarra watched him go with a gentle smile on her lips, her family was limited in their affection to the bastard. Her Uncle Benjen,  _ and father,  _ she thought, were the only ones that truly loved her. Robb’s affections came and went, more so when they suited him the most. Sansa had hardly  _ ever  _ treated Lyarra with respect. Their relationship was troubling since Lady Stark had been whispering in her precious daughter’s ear. The other children loved Lyarra dearly, but they were far too young to understand the emotion. This much she knew for sure. 

Lyarra sighed, finishing off the bread that she had cut with the knife. Avoiding the lustful gaze that she could  _ feel  _ which came from the King, of all men. She was used to men desiring her, not that she thought this arrogantly, but it was hardly anything new. But they hardly licked their lips, and undressed her with their eyes. And they most certainly didn’t have a Queen, who was their  _ wife,  _ that despised them with one mere glance her way. Lyarra thought it was all rather ridiculous, it was hardly  _ her _ fault that King thought her to be pretty. 

Lyarra jumped in surprise as Jaime Lannister sat next to her, in that bright golden cloak of his, shimmering under the light of the candles. He watched her intensely, staring into those bright amethyst coloured eyes of hers. As if they held all the answers in the world. 

“Lyarra Snow,” greeted Jaime Lannister. 

She didn’t quite know what to say to that, the Knight looked at her as if he was seeing a ghost. One that caused him such bitter grief, and for all her kindness, she wished for him to go away, those intense eyes of his were much too uncomfortable, she thought. 

“You’re Jaime Lannister,” breathed Lyarra in shock, and slight excitement. For the man that slayed King Aerys was sitting before her. “I would’ve thought you would prefer to be with the rest of your family.”

“I was curious,” the Kingslayer told her. “Your Eddard Stark’s bastard. Everyone talks about you, the prettiest rose in Westeros. I believe Lord Tyrell was quite miffed.”

Lyarra hesitated, sighing slightly. “I hardly doubt I’m the prettiest rose in Westeros.” 

“That’s what they say,” he said, pouring himself a cup of wine as he eyed the strange girl. “They say your lord father came back with his dead sister and  _ you.  _ From Dorne, I believe. Does that make you a  _ Sand,  _ Lady Lyarra? I do sometimes wonder…” 

Lyarra edged backwards in her seat nervously, her hands sweating for a reason she could not tell. 

“You look like  _ her, _ ” he whispered. As if he found it inconceivable, but Lyarra didn’t know who  _ her  _ was. “So much. But without the bruises and marks, he was a cruel man. Her husband. And he deserved what he got.” 

“I’m… sorry?” Asked Lyarra, confused as to whom he meant. Surely Jaime Lannister of all men hadn’t known her mother? 

Lannister stared, unflinching and intense as he gazed into those expressive purple eyes of hers. Lyarra didn’t quite know what to think of the Knight, she had been so sure, hateful at the thought of him. Her father had made it quite clear to her that he was a man without honour. 

“It’s alright,” observed Lannister. “My thoughts aren’t that savoury for a girl your age. Do me a favour, Lady Lyarra?  _ Please  _ stay far away from King Robert. For both of our sakes.”

Lyarra blinked, scrunching her nose in disgust at the mere mention of the King. 

“He is hardly the kind of company that I wish to keep, Ser Jaime.” 

The Lannister nodded as if it made sense, and Lyarra supposed her words were believable. She couldn’t see herself being attracted to  _ anything  _ that King Robert made himself to be. 

“I know,” smiled Ser Jaime. And Lyarra was rather shocked to see that it was a handsome smile. 

“I promise no harm shall come to you,” murmured Ser Jaime. Sending Lyarra into a bewildered spiral of confusion. 

She nodded, accepting his words for what they were. Glancing at the Hall’s wide and wooden doors. The cold breeze that was drifting in would be much more preferable, but she couldn’t leave. Lyarra knew it was so. 

“Do you think someone wishes to harm me?” Asked Lyarra, but she received nothing from the Lannister. The Knight simply stared, she found that he was quite good at that. The slight interest in him had begun to dwindle. He was, after all, simply a mysterious man in a golden cloak. 

“You're a bastard,” sighed Ser Jaime in exasperation. “You won’t have as much protection as your siblings…” 

Lyarra blinked once more in surprise. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I don’t see  _ why  _ I need protection. I hardly doubt I have assassins out for my blood.”

“Maybe,” conceded Lannister. Clearly thinking upon the matter all the more. “There is always danger in life, Lady Lyarra.”

“I know  _ that, _ ” she huffed. For she did. Anyone with a lick of common sense knew and understood the danger that lingered out in the world. Cruel and callous, as a bastard of House Stark she knew it well enough. Lyarra also knew that her luck had been fortuitous, as her father loved her as much as he loved his other children. Most bastards didn’t get to admit to that. 

Lyarra shoved another helping of potatoes past her pink lips, pouring herself another glass of wine. Even if it was her sixth. 

“You seemed to have had a lot of cups.”

“Yes?  _ And… _ ” Lyarra huffed, her exasperation clear. Nothing in the world seemed to be more important to Jaime Lannister than pestering her. Lyarra wondered briefly if Lady Stark would whip her if she poked her tongue out at the golden Knight. Rudeness, after all, was a terrible trait of hers. One that Lady Catelyn  _ detested.  _

She turned her amethyst coloured eyes from his, reaching for more pumpkin and lamb. The roast was always delicious at Winterfell, but Lyarra had hardly ever eaten anywhere else in her life. That, even now, surprised her. Knowing that she was rather sheltered and had lived a privileged life was a shock, as she had never thought about it like that. But it was the truth, nonetheless. 


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all you lovely people. Hope you had a great one and were all safe from that horrid virus. Here’s another Christmas present!

**LYARRA** stared, the tears were silent as was the tremble of her lips. Her hands shook at the sight of him, _broken bran,_ the small folk had started to call him. A name that pulled at her heart, because it wasn’t fair! Brandon had so many dreams about becoming a Knight, and they would all be for nought. There was little that could be done but pray. 

Lady Stark glanced at her, with all the fury that she usually possessed. The bitter hatred in her cold Tully eyes were as chilling as the summer storms. There was no room for warmth. A hatred that came from the great depths that it was _Lyarra_ whom possessed the greatest beauty of all. The true winter rose, not that Lyarra believed any of this herself. 

Bran was silent, much like them, lifeless to a point that was heartbreaking. She couldn’t look at him for too long, her purple eyes glanced at the fire which roared in the hearth. Warming the room that was once cold, the raven that sat at the window squawked. Flapping it’s dark inky black wings in a huffed manner, it was an odd little creature. But it seemed to find her all the more fascinating, she could safely say it’s eyes were unsettling. A sense of fear stilled her breath. 

She tried to shoo it away, but the little bird refused to move. Staring up at her stubbornly. 

Lyarra shivered as one of the many wolves howled, echoing out into the night. Brutal in the ferocity of it’s call, she felt it right down to her very bones. 

“What are you doing here, _bastard?_ ” Spat Lady Stark, furious with the mere presence of the girl. But that was nothing new, Lyarra thought, Lady Stark always seemed to despise her very existence. 

“I only came to see Bran,” Lyarra murmured, her fingers clenched in her blue skirts. “To say good-bye. I’m leaving in the morning.” 

She saw the absolute joy at these words flitter across Lady Stark’s face, Lyarra’s heart stuttered at such a sight as this. “You’re _leaving_? Where are you going?” This was asked with little concern, but she was surprised that there were some at the very least. 

Lyarra shook her head, running her pale hands along her brother’s pale cheeks. She barely concealed the gasp that crawled up her throat as frost and ice spread onto Bran’s cheek. A jolt of power that she’d never seen before, she couldn’t help but thank all the _Gods_ that Lady Stark hadn’t seen it at all. Her lips trembled, questioning her very own self worth. 

“I-I don’t know,” muttered Lyarra. “Anywhere but here. You won’t see me again.”’

_That I promise._

“Good,” nodded Lady Catelyn. “I don’t want you here, _we_ don’t need you here.” 

So Lyarra let the tears fall, only barely noticing that they were cold as the ice that swept across the green grass on the mild summer snows. An event that the Southrons often raised their brows at, with all the sudden entitlement that they could afford. She liked to think they were all snobs, as they were of little help when it came to precious little Bran. Her sweet brother would never climb again, this much was known. 

“Does your father know?” 

Lyarra shook her head. “No,” she said. “But you mustn’t tell him. We both know if he ever finds out, I won’t be able to leave. He would be more than likely to lock me in my room.” 

Her brother wouldn’t open his eyes, and that was quite honestly the worst of it. Little Bran was motionless, she had even been told that his twitching fingers were the only sense of life that he currently possessed. Not that she, herself, had felt him move. The boy was as silent as the dead, and _yet,_ he breathed. Lyarra swallowed her relief at that, she could reassure Theon that Bran would be on his feet once more. But glancing down at his twisted legs, she knew it wasn’t so. He would never walk again. 

But Bran _breathed,_ and that was far better than a horrible death where he would never walk amongst the soil again. 

“Bran,” she murmured. Bittersweet tears sliding down her flushed cheeks, the pain that she knew was too great. Even for her. “I-I’m sorry I couldn’t come before. I couldn’t, I didn’t want to see you like this,” and the tears only continued to fall. “Don’t die, brother. _Please._ We’re all waiting for you to wake. Me and Robb, _hells,_ even Theon!”

Bran’s wolf cried out, the creature that had yet to gain a name. As if the little thing could sense the grief that had been caused, and all because of a stupid _fucking_ tower! Lyarra wiped her tears miserably, her heart thumped in her chest as she tried to soothe the pain by pressing her lips against his cheek. 

“I have to go now,” whispered Lyarra. “I’ll pray for you, Bran. On my journey, I'll write. I promise you! I’ll write to tell you about my adventures. All of them.” She mumbled in his ear, happy to feel the slightest of twitch. Her lungs could breathe a little lighter at that, knowing that Bran would be well looked after under the tender care of his mother. _She might despise me,_ thought Lyarra, _but she loves all her children dearly._

“I wanted him to stay here with me,” whispered Lady Stark with all the sadness of a grieving mother. As if it was Bran’s end. 

Lyarra didn’t quite know what to say to that, it was an odd day when Lady Catelyn spoke to her in such a manner. 

“I prayed for it. He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.” 

Lyarra’s lips trembled at the thought. 

“Promise me something, Lyarra.” She whispered, and Snow couldn’t help but be shocked at the words that came forth. “Never abandon them, for all I dislike your presence, they are your _siblings._ ” 

Lyarra nodded shyly, her purple eyes gazing into the blue orbs of Lady Stark. “I promise. I could never leave them. _Any of them._ ” 

She squeezed her brother’s hand, and left without a glance at Lady Stark. Sparing her baby brother one more soft look before she disappeared beyond the door, and that would be the last time she would see Lady Catelyn. And perhaps she would’ve embraced the woman had she known the future fate of her family. 

She couldn’t look back, not knowing the grief that her family felt. Even though she would wish to deny it, Lady Stark _was_ part of her family. A bitter heart she possessed, but it was kind in the face of her own flesh and blood. _Family, duty, honour_. 

Such words to inspire the heart.   
  
  


* * *

She greeted the bitter cold wind outside with a smile. It brushed through her wild black curls, Lyarra smiled down at her brother from the turrets. The light sprinkle of snow fell against her lips, blending in with her pale skin. 

Robb seemed to have no time for her. Not for; at the very _least,_ another three minutes. She watched him patiently as he commanded the bannermen with the sudden presence of a soldier. Lyarra thought she ought to find it concerning, but she did not. Times were hard, especially with Bran’s fall. She knew this, as did he. 

“He’s good at ordering people,” said Theon rather glumly. Picking at the wool on his coat. 

“I know,” smiled Lyarra. “He always was. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I trust you not to tell my father.”

“He knows,” sighed Theon, glancing at her in exasperation. “He’s _very_ aware that your sneaking off to The Wall.” His eyes twinkled in excitement, jumping on the spot. “He’s sent a letter to the Lord Commander, we’re going to train there.” 

Lyarra gaped in disbelief, for her father couldn’t possibly know. _How did he always know?!_ She could never get anything past him, ever since she was a mere babe. 

“We’re going to the Wall,” murmured Lyarra. “To train with the Lord Commander?” 

“Yes,” murmured Theon. “It’s my first chance at leaving Winterfell and seeing the rest of the world. I suppose the Wall is good enough.” 

Lyarra spluttered, still in complete denial that her father had known. 

“I-I can’t believe… _he knew!_ ” 

Theon raised a brow in disbelief. “Really? Lord Stark always knew when we were up to no good. I think he has a net of spies. Honestly, there’s no other logical answer.” 

She snorted at that, as the very thought of her father having minions to spy on his own children was absurd. Perhaps he had magical abilities? 

“What’s that?” Asked Theon, glancing at the leather binding that Lyarra clutched tightly in her hands. The girl smiled slyly, an expression that was positively wicked. 

“It’s for Arya, a present before I leave.” 

Theon smirked, his amusement was quite clear as he leaned against the stone. “Don’t let Lady Fish-Face catch you. _Hells,_ that woman can be a right bitch.” 

Lyarra blushed and spluttered. “ _Theon_! You can’t say such things about Lady Stark!” 

“Farewell, my dear.” Bowed Theon as he kissed her hand gently. “Don’t worry,” he smirked. “I won’t say it to her face.” 

She growled, for they both knew this was no better. But Theon had always been a little wild, perhaps this was why Arya tended to adore him. For who else had taught the little wolf archery so well, and with such talent, too.

Arya, however, wasn’t quite as skilled at packing as she was when it came to archery. This became rather clear when she stormed into the room, her clothes were thrown about with little care for order and control. Her lady mother would be growing grey hairs at the sight of the mess, such a thought as this brought a wide grin to her lips, and laughter on her tongue. 

Lyarra snorted, barely controlling herself at the sight of Arya’s wolf who simply rolled around in the clothes as if they were a field of grass. It was the most ridiculous thing that she had ever seen, not counting the time Ghost ate all the jam in the kitchens, _of course._

“What is all of this?” Laughed Lyarra. 

“Nothing,” Arya scowled fiercely. “I was all packed and everything. But Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. A proper southron lady doesn’t just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags, she says.” 

Lyarra smirked. “Is that what you did, little sister?” This couldn’t help but be asked. 

“Well,” huffed Arya. “They’re going to get all messed up anyway! Who _cares_ how they’re folded?” 

“Septa Mordane,” teased Lyarra. “I don’t think she’d like Nymeria rolling around in your clothes either. It’s just as well,” she grinned. “I have something for you to take with you, but it has to be packed carefully. And out of Father’s sight.”

Arya bounced up and down out of pure excitement. Thrilled with the prospect of a present, but she was a child after all. 

“Close the door.” 

Lyarra’s little sister checked the hall with a grin before she shut and bolted the wooden door to her room. Nymeria simply huffed, and rolled about in Arya’s little dresses and undergarments that were thrown about across the floor. 

She gasped at the sight of the silver glinting sword, as it shone under the light of the sun. Arya leaned forward, reaching out to touch the sharp blade. 

“A _sword,_ ” she breathed. 

The scabbard was well made, and just as alluring as the sword that had been handcrafted for little Arya Stark. “This is no toy,” Lyarra said with a stern frown. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.” 

“Girls don’t shave.”

“Maybe we should. _I_ do. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?” Asked Lyarra as she shuddered in revulsion at the thought. 

Arya merely thought it to be amusing. 

“It’s so skinny.” 

“It was made by Mikken, for you. The bravos use swords like these in Pentos and Myr, they’re quite popular in the Free Cities. It won’t remove a man’s head, by any means, but any man can be stabbed. It’s for your own protections, I don’t trust the _Southerons._ ”

“I can be fast, and kill them all for you.” 

Lyarra blanched at the mere thought. “Don’t say such things! If father even heard you…” she hesitated briefly before a grim smile pulled at her lips. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?” 

“I think so.”

“First lesson,” smirked Lyarra. “Stick them with the pointy end!” 

Arya snorted, rolling her eyes in exasperation at her older sister. Who, at times, could be trying. She huffed, glancing at the sword. “I know which end to use,” she said. “Septa Mordane will take it away from me…” 

Lyarra smiled mischievously, placing her finger on her lips. “Not if she doesn’t know you have it, little sister of mine.” 

“But who will I practice with?”

“It won’t be _that_ hard to find someone,” swore Lyarra as if it were an oath. “King’s Landing is a city, thousand times the size of Winterfell. I’m sure, amongst the people, you’ll find someone to train with. There’s always _someone._ ” 

Arya grinned, jumping at the thought of learning how to use her own blade. 

She clutched it tightly to her chest, cautious with the tip of it, of course. She was hardly stupid. 

Lyarra smiled softly at Arya, dragging the young girl into a tight hug. “I will miss you, little one.” 

Arya sniffed, wiping away the tears on her blue sleeves. Those bright grey eyes peering up into her own. “I wish you were coming with us!”

“Oh, _sweetling._ We’ll see each other again, you’ll be back in the North before you know it. Your mother won’t allow you to stay away from her forever. It’ll only be a few months, Arya. That isn’t that long at all.” 

Lyarra huffed as the edge of Arya’s new sword dug into her dress. She couldn’t help but glance at it in concern, hoping that there weren’t any marks. 

“Put down the sword,” she smiled. Arya did so reluctantly before wrapping herself around Lyarra so tightly, refusing to let go. 

“I almost forgot!” She exclaimed with a bright grin on her lips. “All the best swords have names.” 

Arya nodded firmly, her grey eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter. “Like Ice. Does this have a name? Oh, _please,_ tell me!”

Lyarra chuckled, poking out her tongue at her littlest sister. “Can’t you guess, little one? Your very favourite thing!” 

Arya couldn’t help but smirk slyly, grey eyes glinting with a sense of maliciousness that oddly suited her. Lyarra knew that eventually Arya would be a force to be reckoned with. 

_Gods help whomever she marries!_

“Needle!” Smirked Arya. 


	4. Four

**DAERON** arrived at the temple with a swift groan and an aching rib, perhaps he had never been the kind to walk such long distances. But that was no fault of his own, he hardly had the time to enjoy such pleasures as the morning breeze and the afternoon sunset painting the sky crimson. 

He was an exiled Targaryen prince; he had always held much more on his mind, mostly of his own survival. And it was this that made him seek out the looming temple that hovered above their heads. Alysanne gaped in disbelief at the large tower, she blinked at what could’ve been bells. This was more than likely a place of worship, or had been a  _ very  _ long time ago. 

“Are you sure we should be here?” Asked Missandei as she glanced at it cautiously. “I’ve heard tales! What if we’re  _ cursed!  _ My grandfather said that his brother came back from a Valyrian temple with seven eyes and six legs!” She hissed with all the fear that could be afforded in children that were exploring the unknown. 

Alysanne giggled. “Really?” She exclaimed, barely able to conceal her mirth upon the subject. “I don’t know what  _ I’d  _ do with seven eyes and six legs! Although it has its merits, think of how hard it would be to defeated in battle,” she slyly smirked. “With six  _ swords. _ ” 

Daeron couldn’t help but roll his eyes in exasperation, for truly she could be utterly ridiculous at times. Not that he’d ever admit that, Alysanne was fiercely good with her weaponry. 

“We won’t get cursed,” he huffed with a slight tug at his lips. For one mere moment he was viciously satisfied at the thought he was the  _ first  _ Targaryen in hundreds of years to step forth in a Valyrian temple once more. “I can’t believe that any of this is left…” murmured Daeron. 

Alysanne and Missandei could very well accept his disbelief, for why should they not? The temple looked as if it was ageless and nothing had touched it over the years. Such an inconceivable notion as this could’ve only been caused by magic. Both of them were sure of it, the strange blonde boy that had journeyed with them thought it all to be rather mystifying. 

“This place is amazing,” breathed the trembling boy. Gasping at the architecture, it was unlike anything he’d ever seen. 

“That it is,” murmured Daeron. “I wondered if my family helped build it. My  _ brother, _ ” he spat in rage. “He used to say the Targaryens were once the family that funded the Temples. As it was my family that possessed the most magic. But now, I suppose, all of it is lost.” 

Alysanne shook her head, slipping her hand into his own. “It is hardly lost, my friend. It is only forgotten, perhaps now that the gods have sent us here we’re meant to rediscover it all.” 

_ Oh,  _ thought Daeron with a sigh on his lips.  _ How I wish that were true.  _ But even he knew it was highly unlikely. “I would like that to be so, if I had such power…” he smirked viciously. “I could conquer Westeros rather easily.” 

Fervent green eyes peered at him from beneath the boy’s blonde hair, he stared at Daeron nervously. “D-Do you plan too?” He asked with trembling lips and shuddering limbs. “Do you plan to take everything back?”

Daeron blinked at that thought, as it wasn’t something he had  _ truly  _ pondered. It was mostly Viserys that had adored the Iron Throne, after all, Daeron had never particularly cared for it. 

“No,” he laughed. “That  _ throne  _ led to the fall of House Targaryen, or perhaps it was my family’s obsession with it. I think I’d much rather stay amongst these ruins than return to that hobble of cursed land!” 

Daeron jumped in surprise at the loud clashing sound that echoed throughout the entry hall of the temple, purple eyes narrowed in consideration as he turned around the glittering white marble corner, avoiding the glistening diamonds that had been built into the pale walls. His own monetary greed was a rather hard thing to avoid considering he had been raised with  _ nothing  _ at all. 

There was a group of men clothed in gold and red that lingered in the corridor. Daeron glanced at the roaring lion crest on the back of a cape before his very being froze and everything in him feared the swords and daggers that they held tightly in their hands. But the blonde stranger that was amongst them didn’t seem to find any of them terrifying in the slightest, as he raced towards the leader with his arms stretched out screaming ‘ _ papa’  _ from the top of his lungs. Echoing throughout the halls of the temple, jumping into the joyfully surprised man that held him tightly as if he couldn’t very well believe his own eyes. 

_ For it surely couldn’t be?  _

But their new friend clearly knew the man, and that meant that Daeron had been travelling with a  _ Lannister  _ of all people over the past few hours! 

Green eyes that were so familiar turned to them after a few minutes or hushed whispers and pointed glances his way. The Lannister man approached him with all the calm and gentleness that was able to soothe an animal that could only foresee danger. Daeron blinked at the man, him and the stranger (as he had taken to calling the boy) were clearly related. Their green eyes were as bright as the green grass that he had seen only  _ once  _ beyond the walls of Volantis. And their blonde hair was almost as pale as his own, but not quite. If the stranger washed his face clean from the mud and blood that had covered his pale features, Daeron could only assume he would be as handsome as his father. 

The  _ Lannister  _ bowed to Daeron respectfully with a kind smile. Which, in truth, more than anything had shocked him  _ truly.  _ What was he to do with kindness? He had hardly ever been afforded any, the only sense of affection he had gained was from his dear sweet friend Alysanne. 

“I must thank you, Prince Daeron, for returning my son, Tyson. I haven’t seen him for  _ many  _ years, you have no idea how much joy this brings me!” Stated the Lannister, who clearly was an honourable man. Daeron could only nod sceptically, as it was a rather odd place to run into the group of his father, and  _ probably  _ his brother’s enemies. 

“You have no reason to thank me, we were taken by the same slavers. Some form of creatures killed them when we became stranded here…”

Daeron narrowed his eyes in concerned thought as the men began to mumble to one another about  _ ‘foul deformed dragons’  _ or a simple ‘ _ at least they were of some use!’  _ He could only assume they had come across them too, which was a rather oddly fascinating thought. 

“I’m Lord Gerion Lannister,” said the man with a grim frown. “Or I suppose I  _ was. _ ” The Targaryen boy couldn’t help but blink at that as the former-lord started spewing furious insults about his apparent brother and his traitorous ways. Not that Daeron knew anything about that, but he considered such words as these for a few moments. Time stopped, his thoughts taking a rather dark turn as he considered the slaughtered body of Elia Martell and her daughter, Princess Rhaenys. His own _fucking_ _ niece!  _ Long fingers dug into his pale skin at that very thought, his rage was well considered in note of all things. This Gerion held no notice of it. But Daeron couldn’t seem to help himself. 

“You are the brother of  _ Tywin Lannister? _ ” 

Gerion nodded his head with a fierce scowl on his lips. And Daeron didn’t quite know what to say to that, he had a high suspicion that harsh words were spoken about the cruel and callous Tywin Lannister; the man wouldn’t disagree in the slightest, perhaps in his own eyes this made Gerion all the more tolerable. And Tyson, although the boy was quite socially inept, he was a boy that had great kindness to him. In their long tiring journey to the temple Tyson had the odd habit of checking everybody was well and healthy. He even had a slight obsession for searching for healing herbs that grew in the ash, something Daeron hadn’t even known was remotely possible. 

_ He would be a good healer.  _

There were plenty of them across Volantis, Daeron himself had even considered studying at the Healing Halls, it was a fine profession. One, that if enslaved was welcomed with open arms and thousands of gold. A slave could afford wealth if they had the education, this was well known, it was merely the poor that suffered. An intolerable notion in his own mind. 

He could picture Tyson readily walking down the Healing Halls in silver and blue robes, as was typical of those that possessed such a profession. He could almost imagine the boy even being  _ joyful,  _ which was an odd thought as Tyson was considerably shy and barely ever smiled in his company. Daeron glanced fleetingly at the boy who had his head tucked into his father’s shoulder. 

He barely flinched at the jealousy that threatened to consume him, as he had never possessed such love. Perhaps in his early years his brother was kind, but Viserys had followed a path of betrayal and deceit. Of the kind that he would pay for dearly, with his life. Daeron would ensure it, hopefully with his own blade. Gerion nodded at him with a slight smile, warm and welcoming. 

“Perhaps you and your friends would like to stay with us, child. We have enough food and drink for the company.” He glanced at the wooden crates. “At least  _ those  _ didn’t sink with the ship,” he muttered sullenly. Daeron barely suppressed his own laughter at the sight, Gerion looked very much like a sulking child. 

“Yes,” smiled Daeron. For the very first time in a long while his chest felt warm with comfort. Of course, he still stared suspiciously at the golden apple that was offered. 

“Do you have any lemons?” Asked Daeron with a shy sheepish grin tugging at his lips. Laughing in delight as one was passed to him, he cut it with the blade that he had stolen from the ship. Bringing forth the sour juicy fruit to his lips, sighing in delight as the nectar was swallowed eagerly. It had been  _ years  _ since Daeron had been able to enjoy lemons. He had adored them as a child, of course, this was before they were unfortunately thrown out into the streets. There had been no such fruits as that after, it was simply one stale bread after another. And that was only when her brother had the money from their mother’s sold jewellery to afford anything. Daeron knew that was the reason for his brother’s hatred but it was hardly any fault of his own. He thought it was rather ill-favoured to blame him. 

The Lannister men continued to look at him strangely as he devoured the lemon. Removing the seeds gently before eating away at it until there was nothing left but the skin. Yellow, white, and hollow. He glanced up at the belting laughter that had consumed the room, amused with the very sight of the boy and his lemon eating habits. Reminding him very much of his nephew, Jaime Lannister, who had taken after his mother, Joanna, with his consistent habit of devouring lemons. It often drove the servants utterly  _ spare,  _ as they couldn’t quite keep up with Jaime. Infuriating Tywin that the Lannister servants never held the right amount of lemons in their kitchens. 

“My nephew Jaime used to eat lemons as frantically as you,” chucked Gerion. “His mother was just as bad. I think, when we were much younger she ate a whole  _ crate  _ in a week!” Such happy thoughts were sobering, as Joanna was no more and his wretched brother had disowned him for marrying a barmaid from Lannisport. To be fair, she was the bastard daughter of the former king Aerys. Not that he, nor Tywin told anyone else. Gerion had refused to accept her possible death, and his son’s at the hand of his brother and had left. Leaving his family behind in the wind, with nothing but a bittersweet smile. 

Daeron, with great fascination, leaned forward to listen to more of Gerion’s tale about his nephew. The boy that had slain his father, which was just in his opinion. The tales of his father hardly did his house any justice, the Targaryen family had birthed far too many mad relatives. His brother Viserys had often said it was lies of the Usurper, but when so many spoke of the same thing it was hard to ignore. And although Daeron was young, he wasn’t stupid by any means. 

_ Ser Jaime,  _ thought Daeron with a concerned frown.  _ The Kingslayer.  _

He knew in his heart that such words were whispered as an insult, but he wondered briefly if the people of Westeros secretly praised his name. In fortune for riding the world of such a horrific man, the noble houses clearly did no such thing. But the small folk, surely they would’ve seen such justice in Jaime Lannister’s actions. But Daeron knew not. 

He gladly took another lemon into his grasp, cutting it open with a bright grin. Almost choking on it as Missandei yelled in shock, his hand tightened on the blade, eyes glancing at the book that she was holding in a rather reverent manner. Flipping through the pages as if she had found gold itself, her eyebrows only seemed to raise higher the more she read. 

“Daeron!” She squealed, he couldn’t help but wince at the girly sound. Rubbing his ears as he let the lemon drop to his lap, but Missandei seemed to care little for the winces that she had gathered from the men and Gerion. Alys appeared to only take it all in with such great amusement sweeping across her rather pale features. 

“Yes, Missandei?”

The girl bounced over to him, her wild black curls bobbing along with her. For a former-slave she was rather wild and held a stubborn spirit, which seemed to bring a warm smile to his lips more often than not. Daeron almost choked on the lemon he had picked up as he stared down at the High Valyrian. Not believing his own eyes. For it couldn’t be?  _ Could it.  _

His purple eyes stared in wonder as he reverently flipped through the yellow paper. Devouring the blotchy black ink with such desperation, pale fingers caressing the pictures of the monstrous dragons that were  _ surely  _ bigger than Balerion. “This.  _ Where  _ did you find it?!”

Missandei merely pointed at a high raised cabinet of books that reached all the way to the high raised ceiling. The blue ancient ladder next to it was  _ far  _ too long. 

“What is it?” Asked Gerion, peering over his shoulders to squint at the writing. But it far passed his own understanding, Daeron knew High Valyrian well enough. His brother had forced him to learn, striking him if even a single sentence was wrong. He remembered watching as his kind elder brother transformed into what he quickly perceived to be a monster. 

“It’s a book,” Daeron murmured. Watching the Lannister men as they glanced at it with barely concealed curiosity. “On how to  _ hatch  _ dragons.” 

Gerion’s eyes widened in barely concealed awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Tyson’s green eyes peered at the book in excitement, devouring the pages as if they were from the gods themselves. He didn’t touch it, his suspicion was far too controlling for that. But the admiration was easy to notice. Not that Daeron could blame him, dragons were a fascinating prospect for any child. Or he liked to think so. 

Daeron eyed the ritual instructions greedily, it was by no means  _ easy.  _ There was quite a bit of Valyrian magic, he would have to learn that first. Especially if he wanted his dragon to grow to the size of mountains, the things he could do with such a bond! He could very well end slavery across the Free Cities. 

“Could you accomplish such a feat?” Queried Gerion, peering at the pages in wonder. But it wasn’t that simple, and Daeron knew it. However it wasn’t exactly  _ impossible.  _

“I could…” he replied hesitantly. “But I would need to learn Valyrian magic first. And for  _ that  _ I’d have to find my family's historic records, but gods know where those are! I don’t think I could do it, I highly doubt it. But maybe… there’s another way but the dragons won’t grow to be as big.” Daeron laughed at the words. He stared at Gerion with a raised brow. “Apparently it can be done with  _ fire and blood.  _ Huh. Who knew?” 

Gerion spluttered with laughter, his green eyes alight with amusement. The Lannister knew very well how the Targaryens had obsessed over dragons for years over the loss, when really, the secret had been in their house words. 

_ What kind of stupid senseless idiot doesn’t understand the meaning of their house’s words?!  _

Not that he’d share such thoughts as these with the Targaryen boy. But judging by his frown and furrowed brows he was thinking along the same lines, Gerion huffed in thought. 

_ Mind you,  _ he considered.  _ Nobody could ever understand the Stark words.  _

Most in the North muttered how it was highly based around the Long Night, and the white monsters that had once walked amongst the men and a thousand other mystical beings that he was very sure had never existed. He shuddered to think if they had, but Gerion was quite sure the wall had actually been built to keep out the Wildlings. Even if it was a little… excessive. 

_ How in the seven hells had they even built it in the first place? I’ve seen the bloody thing! Only magic could’ve created it.  _

Usually he would dismiss magic, but with the way his life was going, it could very well exist. Daeron certainly seemed to think so, the little prince devoured each word in the book of his. Pale shuddering fingers tracing each line and picture of the dragons that were studied. There were even ones that had been made of  _ ice _ ! But those hadn’t originated from Valyria, they had came from a land of ice, far away. Possessing riders of their own that came from somewhere else, but that was  _ thousands  _ of years ago. Judging by the written script, Daeron couldn’t quite believe there had once been  _ ice dragons!  _

“There used to be ice dragons,” muttered Daeron. But everyone heard him loud and clear. Tyson leaned over to look at the book in excitement, which truly couldn’t be helped. “ _ Seven hells!”  _ Breathed Daeron. “That’s wicked!” 

He was merely observed with amusement at his childish words, Daeron simply shrugged and laughed. Because of possible  _ Ice Dragons!  _

Ice dragons were mystifying subjects and as fascinating as fire-breathing ones. Daeron had been raised with the knowledge of dragons, and learning more about them was thrilling. But to know that there were dragons of another type was even  _ more  _ fascinating. 

“Ice dragons breathed a form of cold fire apparently, killing people with severe frostbite.” 

“Really?” Asked Tyson, removing himself from his father’s shadow that he had been shamelessly snuggled up against. “Could they destroy buildings like normal ones?” 

“From what I can see, yes. They seemed to have more power behind their ice-fire,” Daeron leaned forward in anticipation at the other words that he read. His fingers clenching into the old paper, purple eyes widening. “Because they could  _ also  _ breathe out strong gales.” This was shocking in itself, he knew that normal ones, or the kind that he had read about as a toddler couldn’t very well do that. But he supposed it was natural that the species were so different from one another. 

Tyson seemed awed at that, as if he desired nothing more than to ride on the back of an ice dragon. Although Daeron doubted that would ever happen, it was unlikely that  _ warm  _ dragons would come back, let alone ice dragons. 

The carefully painted drawings were illuminating on the subject, Daeron hadn’t known dragons could grow to such a size as that. They were a large as the ones that were hatched from the death ritual, as large as mountains. Towering over anything else in the world. No matter how much he prayed at night, the only way to see a true dragon with his own eyes was to discover the secrets of Valyrian magic. 

_ Oh,  _ he thought rather sarcastically.  _ That’ll be the easiest thing in the whole world!  _

Which, despite his mind’s claim, would most certainly  _ not  _ be the easiest thing in the world. Valyria was mostly destroyed, he would be lucky enough to find a few Valyrian swords along the way, let alone a whole library full of books on all kinds of magic. But perhaps, if he looked at it all with such faith, maybe the  _ gods  _ had led him here. Maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ it was his destiny. How else had they arrived at Valyria without any harm coming to them in the slightest? Could his destiny be tied with his friends and these few Lannister men? It was certainly looking that way. Not that he minded, Daeron thought them all to be exceptional people.

_ Well,  _ he thought with great consideration,  _ I haven’t known Gerion, his group, Tyson or Missandei for long enough to decide whether they are worthy of my friendship. I cannot know for sure just yet.  _

Warning himself to be cautious around those that he didn’t trust. As Viserys had been his own brother, and yet, he had betrayed him all the same. As if Daeron meant nothing to him at all, looking back that was very well possible. 

“That dragon looks bigger than Kings Landing combined!” Exclaimed Gerion in shock, glancing at the mountains in the background of the painting. He had seen those before on the long journey through Valyria when their boat had sunk. If that dragon was truly that large, there was much to be afraid of in regards to dragons. As he’d seen the head of Balerion, and that had been barely the size of  _ this  _ particular dragon’s own foot! 

Daeron pondered at that, as he had never stood foot in the city that had once been ruled by his family. Kings Landing was a paradise, his brother had often said that, whispering about the luxuries that the Targaryens had once bathed in. The splendour and wealth that they had possessed, now there was nothing left of it. Simply a dynasty left to rot away, Daeron was the last of it. Viserys could hardly be considered family, he never had been from the very beginning. 

The blame for his mother’s death had always seemed to rest on his shoulders. He knew, deep down, that it wasn’t his fault.  _ It couldn’t be.  _

“Is Kings Landing really that big?” Asked Daeron, glancing curiously at the picture of the dragon and those cold yellow eyes that stared back. He almost wished he could reach in with such sweet magic and draw the creature out of the pages and into reality as he knew it. The very thought of riding his own dragon was all consuming, amongst the clouds and the blue skies. It was a thought that had plagued him since he was a little boy barely able to reach the table. 

The Lannister lord glanced at him with a frown, Daeron could see what he was thinking.  _ He knew.  _ It was hard not too, when one looked at a Targaryen they thought of the fall from power, the descent that had crippled his bloodline. And he knew, from it all, that it was because his family had forgotten they no longer possessed dragons. He wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest, if others had already been planning their downfall. 

Gerion nodded, glancing at the boy with raised brows. “It is very large, big enough for thousands of people to live there. If  _ I  _ had a dragon I’d burn the whole fucking thing down. Kings Landing is a wound, Prince Daeron. It doesn’t matter who sits on that throne, it will always be the people that suffer from the choices that are made there. Too much blood, sweat and tears has fallen on that throne.”

“You speak of it as if the throne is a curse.”

“It is.” 

Daeron didn’t quite know what to say to that, but he couldn’t particularly disagree with the man. It was well known knowledge that his own father had been completely  _ mad,  _ and so had a few other ancestors of his. His bloodline had been fine until they sat on the throne, cursing Targaryen from Targaryen. Until Kings Landing was no longer theirs. A grudging fate that he would always hate his father for, it was King Aerys fault that he had grown up on the streets. Begging from one stall to another for just one simple piece of bread. 

“My father was mad,” murmured Daeron. Glancing at Gerion with those tormented purple eyes of his, as if his whole world was crashing around him. “My brother is mad,” he said with a sly bitter twist of his lips. “And my other one was cruel enough to abduct and rape a woman. The only loving relative I’ve ever had was my mother, and she died birthing me. Perhaps you are right, Gerion Lannister, mayhaps that throne  _ is  _ a curse.”

“They say the gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born, Prince Daeron.” 

“I’m not mad!” Spat the Targaryen, infuriated with the very thought. He could never be mad, as long as his mind stayed well away from that throne. Daeron could happily explore the ruins of Valyria for the rest of his days. It was a preferable way to live his life, far away from the troubles and madness that had tainted his family all those years ago. Here in the ash of what Valyria once was, he was remotely safe from it all. 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where everyone clearly knows who Lyarra is but isn’t saying shit...

LYARRA swung her sword with swift precision, her blade meeting the Lord Commander’s. But it wasn’t enough, as with a simple twist of his hand the sword was flung far out of her reach. 

She huffed, her chest heaving as she ignored the curious stares that came from the men that lived within the castle walls. Grenn, a boy who had introduced himself shyly with a small smile on his lips, gazed at her in wonder. Most of them did, although they would hate to admit it, Lyarra Snow’s skill with a blade was better than most who served at the Wall. Lyarra laughed as the Lord Commander handed her the silver glinting sword to her once more, her purple eyes danced under the little light that the sun above could present. By no means, was the Wall like the South. It was quite the opposite. She smiled, glancing at Theon who was stubbornly picking at the grey wool on his fur coat. 

“Boy!” Sneered Ser Alliser Thorne as he handed another sword over to her friend Theon. Who flinched under the scornful gaze that he received, and he had been glanced at by plenty. Lyarra supposed that was what you got when you sent an Iron Islander to the Wall. 

“Yes, Ser?” 

“You’ll go down and join the match, send Lyarra up here,” spat the stone cold tone of the man. His eyes softening at the sight of Lyarra, Theon often wondered if it had been that long since he had seen the warm flesh of a woman. But somehow, in a sense, he knew it wasn’t sexual. As a boy that had visited the brothels well over a thousand times, he knew the difference. It was almost paternal, soft and kind, with perhaps a slice of awe. Theon supposed that could be attributed to Lyarra’s beauty. She held much of it, and a sense of elegance that most women did not. A subject that Lyarra blushed heavily and with modesty at, she didn’t view herself in such a manner. This much had been made clear to Theon. As hard as it was. 

Lyarra sighed in exasperation as Theon took her place, although she had been sent to the cold barren Wall. They treated her as if she was another noble lady, elegant and born from the womb of the daughter of a Lord. But she was not, Lyarra Snow of Winterfell was a bastard. 

“What are you waiting for, Greyjoy!” Sneered Ser Alliser as he pushed the boy down the old wooden stairs. “Get down there!” 

Lyarra couldn’t help but glance back at her friend with a concerned frown, it couldn’t be helped. It was probably the first time in her life she was being treated better than Theon, a strange thought to consider. But one that was idealised all the same. “Theon,” she greeted with a soft smile. Proud and kind. 

He shivered, nodding gently at the girl. Wrapping his fur coat around him all the tighter. The bitter summer weather could hardly be considered such, snow was hardly what you held in mind for the warm glowing weather of the South. 

“Ready,” ordered the Lord Commander, raising his own silver sword as he gazed at the boy. Theon glanced nervously as he shifted, almost slipping on a piece of ice. 

“You might want to be careful where you step, Theon.” Chuckled the Commander with a slight smile on his lips. “There’s plenty of ice here at the Wall.”’

Theon glanced up at the wall of ice, frost slipping from the blue shards. 

“So I can see.”

“Your form is too tense.” 

Theon frowned, looking down at his hands that were clutching tightly at the blade. Perhaps a little too tightly. But it wasn’t much of his fault, he found that the cold weather chilled him right to the very bones. Pale and tormenting, cruel to the very touch. He shuddered, swinging the blade lightly but with more force. 

“Talent, that’s hardly any talent at all!” Spat Ser Alliser, much to the annoyance of Lyarra. She rolled her eyes in exasperation, the bitter man was nothing but a gloomy mood in human form. It was as if he only knew how to sneer and scowl. 

Lyarra watched Theon jump away from the blade, her hands clasped in front of her gently. She had promised her father, that despite all the sword fighting she wouldn’t lose her position as a lady. Which she would fight as much as she could, Lady Stark had made her opinion quite clear on the matter. That she most certainly was not a lady unlike her half-sisters, like Sansa who held the potential for elegance. Lyarra knew her step mother hated the whispers that were often upon the tongues of the common folk, it was Lyarra that they thought wielded the most beauty. It was Lyarra that the Northern Heirs asked for her hand in the next dance. It was something that Lady Stark would never forgive her for. 

The very sight of Theon with a sword in his hand raised such bitter jealousy in her heart. She knew that was exactly what she could not be. Lyarra wished for nothing more to run from the land of Westeros and find a home where she could just be Lyarra. Not the ‘beautiful winter rose of the North’ or the ‘bastard of House Stark’. Of course, her kindest title yet was the ‘Lady Lyarra of Winterfell’. Given to her by the Lords of the North. A title that her sisters possessed as well, it was kind of them. She supposed. But it confined her in a dress and the useless rules that were required to bind a woman in her place. 

She shifted awkwardly under the hard furious stares from Alliser Thorne. An odd habit that she had noticed over the past few days when they had arrived, he tended to watch her like a hawk. In fact, she found that he wasn’t the only one. The Maester, who was an old blind man, typically, he didn't watch her. But somehow he could sense her? She knew not how. But she _knew_. She knew that he could see her in some sense. An odd thought indeed. 

Lyarra had found her place amongst the men of the Night’s Watch. Only slightly. She was well removed from them, and kept in quarters that were close to the Lord Commander’s. Warm and far more luxurious than she was used to. The only others that had travelled with them was Ser Jaime Lannister and his brother, Tyrion. 

The travelers that had came with them were strange, she found, or tended to think in her own time. Jaime Lannister was an odd man, the kind that was silent, and although he didn’t look like it at first, broody. He always looked to be in deep thought, regretful and remorseful, before he suddenly became fierce. Such glances were sent her way more than she liked, what could possibly be so regretful about her company? It often left Lyarra with more questions than she liked. Tyrion, the smaller brother, well, there were simply no words for his particular talent with being… odd. 

And yet, despite the unfortunate tenseness of the Wall, she had enjoyed it all the same. It was a new adventure, one that maybe had been a little disappointing. Her father had told her many tales of the Night’s Men. But none of them were heroes, and hardly any of them held an ounce of honour in their heart. A tragic truth that she was only beginning to understand. 

“My lady,” said Alliser with a slight smile that looked oddly pleasant on his grim cheeks. “You can fight well, but it might not be enough to face your enemies or the winter that is coming…” 

Lyarra blinked in surprise at such words as these. “I don’t understand, Ser. I have no enemies that wish for my blood, my need for a blade is little. But my skill is my own. You think the winter will soon be upon us?” 

Ser Alliser frowned gravely. “The winter is coming, House Stark's words, I believe. But Westeros is ill prepared, I’ve seen the things beyond and by the looks of it,” he chuckled bitterly and with little to no amusement. “We won’t survive a year. They’re coming, Lyarra Snow. Learn to use your sword and perhaps a bow and arrow would do you some good.” 

Ser Alliser sniffed in disdain. “Greyjoy will be of no use to you, he’d rather be wetting his cock in the latest whore. He’s not for you.” 

Lyarra spluttered at the gall that was Ser Alliser Thorne. He had no right in the slightest to dictate who she ought to be interested in, not that she held any sense of attraction for Theon. He was like her brother, cruel and idiotic. She supposed he was handsome to a certain degree, but she had never noticed him herself. There was little to be admired, as one would hardly lust after their own sibling.

_I’m no Targaryen,_ she wrinkled her nose in disgust at the very thought. 

She scowled fiercely at the thought of her brother in all but blood, Theon Greyjoy, being less than her. She knew what he meant, others would perhaps assume it was her worthless title as a bastard. But she saw the strange affection in his eyes. He meant well. And his utter hatred of Theon and all Greyjoy’s before him had been noted, and with a frown on her lips, too. 

“You are crude, Ser.” 

Alliser chuckled, but this time, there was much amusement to be found. 

“You’ll find, my lady, that there are plenty of men here with far worse tongues and intentions that mean you no good.” 

She shuddered at the thought, but she knew very well what he meant. Sometimes, when Theon wasn’t about and she was simply with her guards that Lord Stark had sent, she felt their eyes. Cruel and callous, empty and joyless to the delights of life. They scared her, Pyp and Grenn were pleasant enough. Perhaps the only ones that didn’t greet her with a cold shoulder and lustful heated eyes. 

Though they weren’t all like that, Pyp, had summoned the odd habit of kissing her hand and gifting her with the warmest bowls of stews. Claiming she couldn’t be training on an empty stomach, he was more gentlemanly than the lords of Westeros. But perhaps she ought not be surprised by such things as these. As arrogance was a trait that was far too often bred into the noble gentry of Westeros. Grenn, the sweet kind boy that he was, often spoke of his mother. Murmuring about the old tales that she used to tell him, of anything that involved the Gods. Old or new; they were often tragic. But he loved them all the same, because they were hers. His heart was kind, and held nothing of the like that lived in the barren cold land of winter. Although it had yet to come she couldn’t help but glance at the freezing snow and reconsider, for surely of all things, this could not be summer? 

“You think they mean me harm? The men?” 

Ser Alliser seemed to consider this as he glanced at her once more. With surprisingly kind eyes, but he always seemed to be gazing at her in such a manner as this. As if he was seeing a ghost, Lyarra found that she had been looked at like this her whole life. A tedious thing to consider, that nobody saw Lyarra Snow as herself. Simply the ghosts of the past, it wasn’t just Lyanna they saw. It couldn’t be. Why else would Ser Jaime Lannister follow her around with such remorse? She knew he did so. She was only four and ten, not stupid. Ser Alliser was no different. They saw something in her that she did not. And night after night, it made her wonder. 

“Half the men here are rapists,” he said with a grim frown of disgust. “It isn’t all that hard to consider, Lady Lyarra.” His disgust on the matter was clear enough, he disliked them as much as she did. They were filth in his eyes. 

And he would hardly be wrong. 

“My father told me the Night’s Watch was full of men with honour that guarded the realm from the Wildlings. From what I’ve seen, it’s not true.” 

“Your father,” spat Ser Alliser. “Has the particular habit of lying. He’s far better than he looks.” 

She scowled fiercely. “My father is many things, Ser Alliser. But he is hardly a liar. Perhaps he didn’t tell me the truth of the Wall, but maybe, he didn’t want me to be disappointed.” 

“Your father is more deceitful than you know,” Ser Alliser told her. “I can tell, just by looking at you. You have his eyes, but your face, it is remarkably like your grandmother.” 

Lyarra swallowed thickly. What were the chances that Ser Alliser knew her mother’s family. Her eyes weren’t Stark she knew that much, they were far too purple for that to be true. She’d heard the whispered rumours of Dayne in the air more than once, along with Lyanna. She couldn’t help but wonder if Ser Alliser meant the Daynes or Lyarra Stark. 

But she knew that Lyarra Stark had looked nothing like her, they barely shared any similarity. There was nothing there to notice. As she had seen the many portraits of the former Lady Stark 

Lyarra jumped in shock as Theon yelled, waving his sword about as he charged at the Lord Commander. She could very well see the simmering rage that festered in his veins, Theon swung brutally. But he missed, falling harshly on the cold muddy ground below. She flinched, as such things as these were familiar. Lyarra could hold a sword just as any one else, she had been trained as any other. But she couldn’t admit to being the best, no, that was Robb. And how she hated him for it. 

“BOY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!” 

Ser Alliser grumbled, glaring with such bitter hatred at the Greyjoy. The filthy squid that walked on his own land, the home that he had claimed for himself over the past few years. Although, he wouldn’t deny that he hated it too. 

Lyarra scowled fiercely at the cruel frown that spread tightly across the old Knight’s lips. There was no warmth to be found in those old bitter eyes that he so easily possessed.

“Gods-damned Greyjoys!” Spat Ser Alliser. “I’ll have your head if you injure any man of ours critically. Do you understand!” 

She flinched, there was only so much that could be said between the hatred of everyone and the Iron Islanders. 

“Y-Yes,” stuttered Theon. 

“He tried to kill the Lord Commander,” muttered Grenn as if he couldn’t quite believe Theon’s pure gall. Lyarra could, but she doubted with all her heart that he was aiming for a killing blow. For all his arrogance, he hardly held that much cruelty in his heart, she was sure of it. Or this was what she hoped. 

Lyarra leaned against the wooden railing, smiling at her new friend. Or what she believed could be, Grenn was kind and good. She recognised a heart of gold when she could see one, or the potential was there. Lyarra didn’t have many good talents, but perhaps reading people was one of them. It was far better than her terrible attempts at sewing. She often ended up with more cuts than threaded string. 

“The watch could do with Greyjoy,” mumbled another member. “We don’t even have enough men to face off against the Wildlings.” 

“Shut up!” Hissed another, who peered at her with fury. “You can’t say such things when there’s an outsider here.” 

Lyarra glared through furious narrowed eyes. 

“Perhaps, my lady, you would like to learn how to pick up a sword,” called out the Lord Commander. “I think Greyjoy here has had enough…” 

Lyarra swallowed her nerves, fingers trembling as she pulled away from the bannister. Trudging down the muddy steps as she went, her skirt swaying around her legs. Hiding the pants that she wore under them. 

“W-With pleasure,” she stuttered. As this was something quite new to her, with all the eyes of the Night’s Watch on her. 

“Be careful,” murmured Ser Alliser. 

Lyarra frowned, perhaps it was because she was a woman that he treated her differently. She blinked away the snow drops that fell lightly on her dark eye lashes, unclenching her fists as she made her way towards the swords 

It was heavy, but she had known from the very beginning that a woman would find it hard to fight against a man. But only because of a lack of muscle, her father, the Lord Stark of Winterfell, often said that it was a lack of training that made this so. And Lyarra didn’t have enough of that to even beat her brother. Robb excelled as she followed behind at a much slower pace. It was simply that the swords were always far too hard to lift, something that she had despised from the very beginning. But there was little that could be done about the ways of men and their excessive need to have heavy swords. 

“No,” said Lord Commander Mormont. “You won’t get anywhere with that. It’s far too heavy, grab the slim silver one, it was my sister’s once.” 

Lyarra glanced at him in surprise, it wasn’t surprising that he had sister warriors, of course not. The man was a Mormont! But it couldn’t be helped that she was surprised the sword was here of all places, had one of the lady bears trained in these walls? Was it a secret practice to send your daughters to these lands? Knowing the North and their odd ways, Lyarra could very well consider it to be so. 

“You have been trained, Hmm?” Asked the Commander, raising a brow at the trembling young girl. He tilted his eyes, as if he found her lacking. And really, in the eyes of men, she would always be nothing of the mind and only of the womb that rested in her stomach. That was where, in the eyes of power, her importance would remain. 

“You haven’t been trained well,” he mumbled. “Here’s what we’re going to do! I want you to go through the basics of what you’ve been taught. Raise the blade!” 

Yes, thought Lyarra. The North Lords are definitely secretly sending their daughters to be trained at the wall. She doubted the South knew anything of this, but she was so sure of it. The Lord Commander seemed experienced, not just in training with men but women as well. 

He is a Mormont, after all. 

He swung at her gently, allowing Lyarra to shift from one foot to another. Her legs tensed as she pushed forward, with all her strength and power. She wasn’t too bad either, the Night’s Watch could barely admit to themselves. She could be better, even the minds of those that didn’t like the girl could admit to this. Her strength would get her far, and her legs were skilled with the right movement. And she had the intelligence to succeed, perhaps with a little help she could go far. Her stance was far from perfect, and it was this that stopped her from becoming better. But the Night’s Watch had seen the worst of fighters become far better than what they used to be. The Lord Commander shook his head, glancing at the girl through furrowed brows, that only seemed to irritate the girl all the more. Lyarra pushed forward, silver clattering against silver. 

“No,” he said again. “You're putting too much power into it all. My lady, please find no insult to this. But you’re a woman.” 

“Yes?” Snapped Lyarra. “What of it?” 

If there was anything that she hated in the world, it was being judged by what laid between her legs. She couldn’t very well help it. 

“You don’t have the strength of a man. Think of yourself like a river, gentle and elegant. But, my dear, what else is a river?” 

Lyarra blinked in utter bewilderment at the man, but her purple eyes quickly lit up in delight as the words were understood. 

“A river can be destructive?” She asked, amethyst eyes glinting curiously at her instructor that didn’t seem all that disappointing. Anymore. 

“Yes, allow yourself to relax. But be aware.”

Be brutal, whispered the darkness that lingered in the prisms of her own mind. And so she let go, the strength fading away into what looked to be weakness. To most, it would fool the incompetent. But the Lord Commander wasn’t just anyone. He held the intelligence of a seasoned warrior, he knew how to disarm her. But it was far harder than earlier. 

Lyarra yelped as he tapped her roughly on the side of her waist, she shuffled back. Attacking quick as a snake, hissing at the man. Twirling away from his own strike, she laughed. Joyously and with a sense of wickedness that had the others cringing. They all knew that with a certain amount of training Lyarra Snow could be deadly. 

She growled in irritation as he knocked her off her feet, tumbling into the mud with a loud squelch. The girl shuddered, picking at the mud in her hair in disdain. It was everywhere! But she held little time to focus on that, as the glinting Valyrian Steel came swinging at her. Lyarra smirked as she lifted her blade and rolled between the Lord Commander’s feet. Thumping him on the back, watching the man stumble with a victorious smirk. The first that she could allow. 

“Good,” he smiled softly, but it slowly became fierce enough as he grinned ferally. “But not enough!” 

For a man that was old, which he was, he possessed plenty of grey hair and a limp that could only be fake. The Lord Commander made up for his age in strength, he was quick and powerful. But her lord father had often murmured that the Mormonts were the strongest in the North. They produced children that were born to be warriors, whether they be a lord or a lady. This was the way it always had been, Lord Stark had often said. And perhaps this strange Lord Commander possessed their strength. Lyarra groaned as the hilt of his blade banged her in the forehead, much to the alarmed shout of her brother in all but blood. Lyarra fell back into the mud with a whimper on her lips, clutching at the pain that only seemed to grow. 

“Get up!” Ordered the Mormont, Lyarra barely managed to clasp her sword in her shaking hands as she met his own. 

The rage quivered through her, and Lyarra growled rushing forward at the man. Almost tripping over her own feet as she fought ruthlessly and with such bitter anger. It was Theon’s mistake, and it would be her own. 

Her brother, whom she would always see as such, cringed at the violence that they both displayed. Clutching tightly at what could very well be a broken arm, there was something brutal about the Lord Commander that simply made a man seethe in rage when it came to the clattering clash of swords. Perhaps it was the man’s perfected tactic of winning, not that Theon (or Lyarra much later) doubted it was a failure. For it surely worked. Did it not? 

Theon hissed as Grenn pressed into his arm as he leaned over the bannister to get a better look at the fight. Lyarra was doing well, despite every bruise that landed on her pale creamy skin. 

The Lord Commander huffed, holding his blade fiercely at her neck as he had done so with Theon. As all young learners, her anger seemed to get the better of her. She snarled, the fire in those eyes burned bright. The Commander shuddered, unlike her father it wasn’t cold or grey, it burned brighter than the sun that lingered above them all. Wrathful and beautiful. Such thoughts were fleeting, and hardly to be considered. True nonetheless. Ser Alliser, in that moment, knew who she was. He had been so sure before, from the very moment he had gazed upon her. 

The man had barely covered his gasp, for how could it be? That a woman, no, a girl. How could a girl possibly possess those eyes and that face. Rhaegar and Rhaella lived in that girl, this strange Lyarra. It was clear as day, he was hardly the only one that had noticed. Baratheon men, Targaryen men and so many others could only stare. But perhaps it was her beauty, even the Lord Commander had admired her eyes for a fleeting second when she had glared up at him with a piercing stare for having the nerve to beat her. As if it was a horrific nightmare that she despised. And mayhaps it was. No woman ought to enjoy the thought of being beaten in a training duel at the hand of a stranger, amongst men that eyed her in such lust. It was hard not too, there was something positively wild about Lyarra Snow. A burning fire that was cold, and yet enough to boil the flesh on any man. 

She was a raging storm, one that was angry. And it wasn’t just Rhaegar that he saw in those eyes, it was another man. One that held little kindness and far too cruelty. They held the same fire, and yet, with hope the girl would prove herself to wield far more balance. Lord Stark, although Alliser hated the man, he had to be commended. From the very moment he had met little Lady Lyarra he had known. Lord Stark had came back from Dorne with his sister’s dead body and a babe, a child that looked so much like Rhaella Targaryen, despite her black curls which were clearly of Stark heritage. And those eyes, they were much like her father’s. She was beautiful, two lineages had produced a miracle. A hope that set his heart blazing, there was a Targaryen of all things hiding away at the Wall. 

And she had to be. Didn’t she? A Targaryen bastard could be ignored, and hidden away. Especially if they were a girl. But no, now a true born Princess could bear children that held a claim to the throne. A problem was what Lyarra Snow was, certainly in the eyes of Lord Stark. But he clearly loved her all the same, regardless. Alliser couldn’t help but wonder how she had lived so long, how anyone hadn’t even noticed? 

King Robert would have her executed, or far worse, married to his eldest son who was very much a monster. They had heard the tales, it was hard not too. Even in such a cold bitter land as these, Lord Stark, he knew, would rather die than force a marriage on any of his children. And yet, it was him that had forsaken his niece. Allowing his own daughter to be betrothed to a monster so she would be Queen, when in no sense did Sansa Stark have any right to the Throne. The rage boiled in his blood, and it would too, in Lyarra’s. If the girl ever knew. 

She was the type that would take the throne for herself, because she could. With that stubborn fire of hers and vicious smirk, she was a Targaryen. And yet, there was something so incredibly Stark about the Princess. Not that she could see it for what it was. But it remained there, in the eye sight of them all. Alliser glanced down at her shuddering form in the mud with a frown. She had been down there for far too long. 

“Is she alright?” Asked Ser Alliser. The poor little snow shuddered and yelped, reaching up to clutch tightly at the side of her ribs. Perhaps they were broken, and he hoped deeply that it wasn’t the case. For she would hardly look back on her first true training session with a smile. But no one ever did, not at the sword of Jeor Mormont. There was none other like him, and his particular fierce ways of training. It was no wonder the fierce lady bears were so dangerous. 

Anyone would learn to be vicious at the hands of such brutality. But all that Jeor Mormont could be cruel, he had a kind heart. Alliser had seen it, and at times it made him sick. 

Happiness always seemed to do so. 

“Fucking bastards,” cursed Lyarra. 

Theon merely snorted in amusement. “Oh, she’ll be fine. She always is.” He knew the girl well enough, and Lyarra could swear the worst of them all. Her tongue was like that of a sailors, or so had claimed Lord Stark in his normal disapproving manner. Lyarra, he knew, often considered herself not to be enough in her father’s eyes. Which was fair, for Lord Stark judged none of his children as harshly as he did with the little Snow. 

Lyarra rolled over with a groan, picking herself up from the ground. She wrinkled her nose in disdain, the mud was caked all over her. From elbow to ankle, there was no escape from the very sight of it all. She glanced back at the men with a frown, fierce and wrathful, as they were laughing at her! Nothing could’ve made her more infuriated, what had she done to them to amuse them so? Lyarra had been nothing but kind! 

“Ghost! No!” Screeched Lyarra as she tumbled back into the mud once more with the little beast sitting on her chest as if it was his throne. 

“Ghost, yes!” Laughed Theon, clutching his side as he gazed at the brown coloured girl. All her beautiful features were no more, she was simply made of mud and dirt. And there certainly wasn’t anything lovely about that. 

“Why?” Moaned Lyarra in embarrassment. For it couldn’t be quite helped, could it? She shuddered, storming towards her cloak and draping it heavily around her shoulders. She ignored the tears that shone in her purple orbs, they were not for the eyes of the cruel. 

Ghost yapped. Rolling his tongue as if he held no care in the world, and perhaps he did not. But Lyarra did, she held her crumbling pride and dignity in what used to be pale hands, she was filthy. And no form of any bath could resurrect what she had lost. Her dignity. 

“My lady,” greeted Ser Jaime. “Are you feeling well?” He asked, those eyes were kind. And it was that she hated the most, for how could any of it be true? Her father often spoke of the Lannisters with a foul tongue, but this one was nothing like the stories she had heard. 

Perhaps he held far too much arrogance, but that, at the very least, was expected of a Lannister. They held all the wealth that couldn’t easily be afforded. 

“I’ll be fine,” mumbled Lyarra. Roughly putting the sword back into place with a curse on her lips, eyebrows furrowed under her own weight of failure. Was there anything in this cursed world that she was good at? For sure, she held beauty but when her last name was Snow, what good was any of it? In a sense, she couldn’t help but hate herself. But Lyarra knew, her birth was no fault of her own. Nor would it ever be. 

This much would be denied by the hearts of the wealthy, for they couldn’t very well take the blame of the bastards that they had sired. It simply wasn’t done! 

“I’m used to it,” muttered Lyarra. “They all hate me. They’ll always hate me.” 

“They don’t hate you,” said Ser Jaime. “Not all of them at the least. Ser Alliser is rather fond.” 

Lyarra sighed, shaking her head at the thought. They would never like her, she had learnt that lesson a long time ago. Lady Catelyn had despised the very presence of her, claiming she wanted nothing to do with the filthy bastard. But Lyarra often saw the fear in her eyes, genuinely concerned that Lyarra would steal all her daughters prospects. Not that there would be many for Arya, and if there were, they wouldn’t certainly catch the girl. She would run far away. Marriage was simply something that couldn’t be possible for Arya Stark. 

“I think he’s a little strange,” she snapped. “He hates everyone else, and is only joyful when another is in pain. Why should he like me?” 

Ser Jaime nodded, as one would have to be a fool not to notice such things as these. 

“You did well,” said Grenn. Who stood above her on the bannister, smiling at the girl softly. Everything he did around her was done with kindness, even though he seemed to be infuriated at the world and all that it had done to him. This, she could sympathise with, for she, in return despised all that it had done to her. Grenn often told her about the kind little sister he had, with curls as dark as the night sky. Beautiful and so very young, you remind me of her, was what he often said. It only made her heart ache for the siblings that were so very far away. 

Ser Jaime glanced up at the boy with an arrogant air, narrowing his eyes on the young man that held little potential with a sword. But, after all, he was far better than Samwell Tarly. 

“Thank you,” murmured Lyarra. In the end, her heart was fond of her new friend. Grenn grinned impishly, jumping from the railing and landing with a thump. For all that he couldn’t swing a sword, as he was untrained, he could climb anything that was in his reach. In this, he reminded her of Brandon. 

So very much. 

Ser Jaime’s hands went to the hilt of his sword, raising his brow at the young man that stood far too close to Lyarra. 

Certainly in his own opinion. 

“You’ve been training,” smiled Lyarra. “You’ve gotten better with a blade. Far more than when I last saw you, and considering that was only a few days ago. That’s plenty of improvement.” 

Grenn nodded, running a hand through his tousled dark brown curls. 

“I had training, some. My sister used to help me steal the blades in the blacksmiths,” smirked Grenn. His mischievous eyes glinting under the summer sunlight. 

Ser Jaime scoffed. “You’ll never be any good, thief. Your kind never are.”

“I care little for your opinions,” hissed Lyarra. Furious at the cruel words that were so harshly directed at her friend. 

The Knight flinched, her words weren’t meant in kindness, as she hardly held any high opinions of his need to stick his nose into her business. Ser Jaime was protective, and seemed to disapprove of every man that she ever met. Once, maybe, she would’ve believed he was jealous but his eyes held no attraction. 

“The Lord Commander doesn’t like you,” muttered Grenn. “I heard,” he leaned forward with a mischievous whisper on his lips. “That it’s because he thinks your a Targaryen.” 

“W-What?!” Spluttered Lyarra as if she couldn’t very well believe the words that were slipping past his lips. They were utterly absurd. 

“They say it’s because you look like her, the late Queen Rhaella.” 

Words as these were met with bewilderment, the very thought of looking like a Targaryen Queen was absurd. She had always thought her features were purely Stark, perhaps not identical. She looked nothing like Lyarra Stark, or any of the former lords. She supposed, as Lyarra had always known, that she looked nothing like her father. The Daynes, as far as she knew, had no connection with the Targaryen family. If it was true that her mother was Ashara Dayne. 

But in the end, the truth of looking much like Queen Rhaella explained quite a bit. The cruel looks she had gained from plenty of the men, the Targaryens were despised in Westeros. Which, she often thought was rather unfair, as most of the crimes had only been committed by two. One couldn’t blame the innocent children after all, Rhaenys had been slaughtered with such brutality. Viserys Targaryen had fled from the Kingdom taking his young brother with him. Lyarra knew of their existence, as did many. But there was hardly anything ever said about the young princes. 

She couldn’t help but wonder, out of pure curiosity if she looked like them. The Targaryen children that had lived on a land unlike her own their whole lives. Or most of them. Lyarra shook her head at such thoughts, for all she knew, they could very well be dead. 

“That’s ridiculous,” breathed Lyarra. “I don’t look like Queen Rhaella!” 

For it was absurd. 

“I don’t know,” shrugged Grenn. “Never saw her myself, she was dead before my time.” 

Ser Jaime merely chuckled as if he only found it all incredibly amusing, and perhaps to him it was. Lyarra considered that maybe he thought a bastard looking like a Queen held all the worthy amusement in the world. Or it certainly did for him. This, of course, was possible. 

Lyarra frowned, nodding at Grenn before she stormed up the creaky wooden steps and into the warmth of Castle Black. It wasn’t as warm as she often liked, Winterfell was missed in her heart and mind. Above all, she missed the warmth. And in truth her return to the castle was much anticipated, she wouldn’t have survived here. This much she knew herself. The land was cold, leaving a bitter fury chilling in her bones. Pale fingertips turning blue under the wind. 

There was power in her blood, a singing song that burned under the weight of ice. It was cold, and yet, it was something more than that. A warmth settled after, brutal and boiling. A sense of agony that she could spend the rest of her life from, it was magic. She knew that much, but she also knew the Lords of Westeros would be frightened of such abilities as these. And her head was one thing she ought to keep. 

Mayhaps I should stay here away from the rest. 

The thought was slippery and cruel, against herself more than anyone else. It was a trait that had never been accepted by herself, insecurity was a weakness and those that possessed such things as these never lived for long. 

“Gods,” murmured Lyarra. Breathing in gently as she relaxed in the warmth of her room. Watching at the blue and yellow flickering lights on her palms faded away into nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

“Ghost,” she groaned. Crumbling onto the wooden floor below, pressing her shivering cheeks against the white fur of her wolf. The precious creature that she so dearly loved. 

Ghost whined, pressed his pale snout into her neck. Purring at long fingers combed through his fur, but such a thing was always a comfort. And he didn’t get much of it from the other Starks, as they each had a wolf of their own. 

She sobbed, a brown mess trembling on the wooden floor. Muddied and bruised, but there was a fire in her heart that knew nothing of defeat, it would not be distinguished easily. 

As it was the heart of a Dragonwolf. 

And such things were brutal and vicious, bloodthirsty in the very sight of their enemies. But Lyarra knew nothing of this.

And that couldn’t be helped. 

Could it? 


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this one! It took me ages to write. Writing about Valyria is hard, it really is! I’ve read some fanfics where Dany goes to Valyria but I hope this is a little different.

**DAERON** blinked, gazing in surprise as he looked at the uncovered city. It was bustling with life, the cloud that had once lingered across the hidden side of Valyria was gone. And in its place was the side of the city that seemed to be untouched, alive with life of what seemed to be Valyrians. He couldn’t quite believe the sight that was before his own eyes. 

“They call it the Hidden Valley,” murmured Gerion as he looked briefly at the citizens. “They’re not that very friendly. I don’t think they  _ like  _ outsiders, but from what I know. The magic embedded in the stone protected them, they’re the last embers of the Valyrian Empire.” 

It was  _ beautiful.  _ The white stone buildings were tall and towered over much of the city, spirals that reached up into the crimson skies above. The light, unlike the rest of the Free Cities, that shone down on the stone paths was as red as the sky above. It reminded him much of the tales his brother had once told, the story of the three-headed-dragon and its  _ rider.  _ He hadn’t put much faith in the lands of Valyria, but standing in such a place he knew some stories must’ve held a certain sense of truth. The magic could almost be tasteful on his tongue, bitter and  _ yet _ , it was so incredibly sweet. 

“They have a temple of knowledge,” pointed Gerion at the building that spiraled up into the clouds. The largest of them all. “I assume you’ll find your knowledge on magic there.” 

Daeron frowned, glancing at the building that had only formed shadows amongst the scuttling people. “Would I even be allowed in?” 

“I assume so,” murmured Gerion. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t let you in.”

He looked back at the Temple with furrowed brows, he would have to be a fool not to notice the guards that stood outside the gates in robes of gold. Standing proud and tall, with their glinting silver swords strapped at their hips. Viserys, he thought with a sneer, would’ve loved it all. It wasn’t all that hard to imagine him amongst the proud Valyrian people, a smile on his lips for the very first time. They could’ve found a home here, but he knew that Viserys’ greed could never be tamed. A burning passion that grew out all desires, a need for the throne that sat in the heart of Westeros. Daeron had never wanted it, not really. All he desired was his small home in the land of Volantis. It wasn’t to be gained or seen again, he knew this as did his dearest friend, Alysanne. 

He smiled, clutching tightly at his sword as he walked down the steps of the ruined temple, he wondered briefly if it was a former place of knowledge. For it looked all the same as the one that stood tall and proud, in the Valley that was more than often hidden from the eyes of wanderers. Gerion, judging by the frown and the stiff posture didn’t think it was all that wise to seek out the citizens. 

“I’ll return,” Daeron told Gerion. “I wish to seek out more knowledge on my House. And  _ that  _ seems to be the best way to go about it.” 

Gerion flinched, glancing at the people in a cautious manner. Of the kind that found little trust in strangers, which was odd. Considering that he had accepted Daeron and his friends with open arms, but it could very well be because of the saved life of Gerion’s son, Tyson. 

“It’s not safe,” said Gerion. “They’re not safe.” He crossed his arms with a huff. “I’m coming with you, I won’t have the boy that I owe such a debt too dead because of an act of  _ foolishness. _ ” 

The journey towards the hidden city was dangerous, far more than he ought too consider. They ended up clinging to the rocks as they clambered down, Alysanne not that far below them. It seemed  _ she  _ was far better at it. 

But Daeron had known this. From the moment they had met, skinny long limbs and a lopsided grin. Alysanne was much like a cat, she could reach such ridiculous heights, one arm after another. Climbing the highest and steepest of towers in Volantis.  _ Of course,  _ his dearest friend was rather odd about it. For all that she could climb (much like himself), she always had such trouble in getting down. But this particular slope from the Temple of Knowledge, or the former one at the very least, was rather easy for her. 

_ Gods know why.  _

The lands were barren and desolate, an empty place that formed a bitter ache in his heart. Of the kind that he knew, it reminded him greatly of his own life. The slaves that his brother had brought, the hundreds that he had brutalised all while Daeron had covered his ears and cried. As a child, the violence and fists of his eldest brother was all that he knew. In times like those, all he seemed to want was the comforting arms of his mother. He had only made the mistake for crying out to her  _ once,  _ something that had woken the dragon in his brother and for it he received scars that ran along his back and to his hips. A reminder of the bitter festering monster that lived in the heartless boy that was, unfortunately, his own flesh and blood. 

By the time they had reached the city, the music had become piercing. It was haunting, a tale of desolate sorrow that made his eyes prickle with tears. Of the kind that he remembered on the worst of his nights, the sound of a wailing babe and a screaming mother. 

_ And scorching desert sand—  _

He glanced up with a frown, this place was clearly of magic. For where the other skies were crimson red, raining ash upon the remains of what once was.  _ This  _ place could not be possible. Should not be. As the skies were clear, and the stars could be seen. Even in Valyria, he often couldn’t tell if it was night or day. The clouds seemed to glow, eerily. 

He could almost imagine them, shuddering as his eyes fluttered. The beats of wings, like leather and fire, burning at the touch of flesh. Like the scorching embers that blew forth past white razor sharp teeth. The golden eyes of a dragon, cold and yet boiling all the same. He could  _ see  _ them, flying amongst the ashes. A world that was wings and fire, blood and eternal death scorching the lands that would forever know  _ Daeron Targaryen.  _ He jolted out of his thoughts, jumping and glancing down in surprise as a loud snap came from beneath his feet. He winced at the sight, they walked upon a trail of bones. A gruesome thing to see. Truly. 

“Daeron,” warned Gerion as he looked around nervously. And he couldn’t quite blame him for that, as they  _ were  _ walking upon a graveyard of littered bones. As if they meant nothing at all. “You don’t think they’re victims. Do you?”

“No,” the Prince admitted. “I know nothing about these people. I suspect you don’t either. But surely we have nothing to be afraid of, these ruins and bones were more than likely caused by the Doom.”

Daeron didn’t say much else, even if he thought it was a little odd Gerion would ask such questions of him. The man had been here longer than him, that much was for sure. Daeron, although he was of Valyrian descent, knew nothing of these people. 

They weren’t frightening, but they certainly didn’t look pampered. Their life was hard, and this much could be seen by the leather they wore and the cotton they held tightly too. There was nothing of silk skirts and luxuries beyond belief. 

His brother, he knew without a doubt, would’ve been greatly disappointed to see what Valyria had become. But Daeron cared little for  _ that,  _ he was enchanted by their silver hair and purple eyes. The little bells the women wore in their hair, jingling as they strode by. It could only be a tradition, a culture that the people adhered too. Why else would they casually, and perhaps not so, caress them as if there was nothing more important in the world. But these people looked so much like  _ him.  _ And it ached, for was this what his mother had looked like? A  _ very  _ long time ago. Happy and beautiful. Perhaps happy couldn’t be attributed too, but her beauty was often murmured off. Even now. 

The strangers glanced at them as they passed through the markets, the objects being sold were the strangest of things. Fish that didn’t quite look like fish (were they supposed to have glowing eyes and burnt smoking flesh?) and, of course, there were the golden orbs that hovered above the tables with price tags in a currency that Daeron didn’t understand. Perhaps these strange people traded, it looked very much like it. There was even a part of the tents and ancient buildings that were littered to the brim with Valyrian Steel. Of the kind, that even he, was desperate to get his hands on. 

_ Viserys would be filthy jealous,  _

Daeron smirked viciously. 

The city, when revealed by the clouded thick smoke was  _ beautiful.  _ The citizens watched them curiously as they gazed about, up at the towering pale and blue temples. White marble and marvellous in all the ways a palace could be, for surely it was nothing else? Daeron gazed down at the city that led down the side of what could be a mountain, had they perhaps always walked on one? He knew not. But the steaming water below where a gathering of boats rested showed perhaps they did. The bubbling water, or beach, for that’s what it was, led out towards the foggy ocean. Daeron had never seen the likes of it before, proud and proficient. He gasped, looking upon them in horror. Such thoughts wouldn’t have assumed them to be birds, but  _ no,  _ the creatures could only be the kind that had destroyed the slavers. 

_ And feasted on their flesh.  _

The city was perched on the side of a mountain, perilous alleys lead down the cliffs towards the boiling ocean. Bubbling with all the fury that could be afforded for the ocean of Valyria. The trees were unlike anything else he’d ever seen before, not that Daeron had seen many in the tall walls of Volantis. But they were far different from what he knew, golden leaves that looked crisper than glittering gold in the summer light. 

The boats rocked viciously against the shore, and he couldn’t help but wonder how they survived against the burning currents. The steam could only be hot, molten embers of ash and fire. A remembrance of the Doom of Valyria. He supposed it had something to do with the golden glowing fluttering runes that he could see high up from the cliff. From the very top of the city, looking down at the arched alleyways and running children. The city of life, despite the desolate horror that seemed to swallow everything whole beyond the four walls of this magnificent wonderland. 

Daeron wandered down the stone steps and into another alleyway towards the temple that looked much like their own. Despite the protests of Gerion, Alysanne had little to say but look around in wonder. As did the people at her. Alys was far from the usual girl, with skin as fair as what he assumed snow to be, and hair as dark as the night sky above. She was a far cry from the Valyrians that walked about under the pale moonlight, glittering and so incredibly  _ white.  _

“ _ Filth!”  _ Swore a fat silken man as he towered over a young boy, holding the bread tightly to his chest. His little pink lips trembling in fear at the frightening man, he was the first that Daeron had seen dressed in such clothing. Rich and youthful, and yet, the wealth had done nothing to his weight. The vile man’s stomach bulged tightly against his silver woven belts. “ _ Do you think you can steal from my carts! The place my family has owned for hundreds of years! Since the Doom!”  _

Daeron scowled, glancing at the poor boy that was trembling under the fierce gaze of the beast. He noticed those eyes, how could he not? Purple and wrathful, the eyes of a monster. The eyes of the man that he had once considered a brother. They were one and the same. 

“ _ You filth!”  _ Spat the man, towering over the little one as he raged with his fists. Banging them into the wooden cart that barely reached the top of the boy’s head. He was, perhaps, that young. And nothing in the world could’ve broken his heart anymore, for in that trembling little child, he saw himself. Five and so very alive in the world. 

“No,” he muttered. 

He couldn’t watch. Not when those filthy rags so barely resembled his own as a little boy. Filthy and sodden, from running through the streets in bare feet. Hiding away from the guardians that strolled the streets looking for thieves much like himself. He had learnt to steal at a mere age, for how else was he supposed to find a tomato or an apple for the night? 

The boy cried, reaching up to touch the cheek that flushed red under the cruel mark that had bruised his pale flesh. 

The bread was snatched out of the poor boy’s trembling hands, those pale and skinny cheeks huffed. And,  _ oh,  _ thought Daeron,  _ that ached.  _ His hands pressed against where his heart heated beneath his skin. This boy who stood before him knew far too much pain, it was etched into his skin and littered upon his soul. Daeron knew. He had seen it all before. On himself, on Alysanne, even on Missandei. The boy cried as he desperately reached for the bread as if it was his last sense of life, Daeron hissed in fury as the poor thing was punched in the stomach. Or what could barely be considered one. 

“No!” Shouted Daeron, desperately running towards the pair of them as the man raised a blade. Pointed and sharp.  _ “No! Please. Stop!”  _

The fat man turned to him, scowling furiously. Pointing the blade at Daeron in fury, but perhaps he had always been a little too stubborn for his own good. He lifted his chin with a wobble of his lips and a slight tremor of his hands. 

He was afraid. And rightfully so. 

But the monster didn’t move, except for the swift press of the knife against the boy’s flesh. Watching in delight as pinpricks of red dropped against the Valyrian Steel dagger. 

“ _ Please! Let him go! I’ll pay for all of it. The food!”  _ Begged Daeron, hands clasped tightly. 

The man seemed to consider it with a sneer, but his filthy greedy purple eyes lit up at the sight of the coins of gold that Daeron seemed to possess. It wasn’t like these were the only ones he had, the Temple of Knowledge had thousands of them. A whole room filled to the brim with glittering treasures, the gold was certainly worth the poor boy’s life. 

“ _ You’ll pay for this filth?”  _ Asked the brute in confusion, as if he thought the boy to be scum beneath his nicely polished boots. All things considered, he probably did. 

“ _ Yes. _ ” The monster dropped his blade at that, holding out his hand. Accepting the bribe of twenty golden coins. Which was far worth half the food that rested in one of his stalls, he glanced at Gerion with a slight smile. 

“Could you help me with gathering the food?” 

“Of course,” smiled the Lord. The pale little Valyrian gazed up at them in wonder as they helped him to the food. The little one merely gazed at it all in wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. 

“ _ This basket is all yours, little one.”  _ Gestured Daeron as he gave him the wooden flimsy basket that the boy seemed to adore.  _ “Give the other ones to all your friends, I’m sure it’ll help you with food for a month. Please, do be careful…”  _

“ _ This is all mine? Yes?”  _ Asked the monster that peered at them in disbelief. Holding the golden coins, Daeron could only blink in surprise. Perhaps it was worth far more than he thought? 

“ _ If you leave him alone.”  _

The monster nodded, barely comprehending the glittering gold that he clutched tightly in the palm of his hands. It almost seemed impossible to his rather simple mind. 

The boy nodded, clutching the three baskets tightly to his chest with a smile. They were far bigger than him by many means, it was rather amusing to watch. He beamed, small little dimples appearing near his luminous steel eyes. Daeron thought he’d never seen anything sweeter, and so very kind. 

The monster glanced at the little thief in disbelief as he ran off with the three baskets, disappearing with half the food from one of his carts. Daeron merely glared for there was little else that could be done on the matter of  _ him.  _ He brushed his fingers at the sword strapped tightly at his hip as he stormed past the brutal monster that only brought back such fierce memories of crazed silver eyes and piercing glinting daggers. Of the kind that had once carved into his skin. A bitter memory, nonetheless. 

“Where are we going now, my Prince?” Asked Gerion, much to the surprise of Daeron. 

“Prince?” 

Gerion laughed. “Is that not what you are? The son of a King and Queen. Albeit a King that wasn’t particularly sane… but he  _ was  _ a King.” 

Daemon nodded, he knew that. He always had. But nobody had spoken such words to him before, it was unreal. For one mere moment, standing upon the towering city of the hidden world of Valyria, he felt like a Prince. Proud and powerful with a mighty sword strapped at his side, the world open to him. All for his crown, glory and gold, all for  _ him.  _

“Why?” He asked with a slight smile pulling at his lips. He found that he preferred the title Prince. Far more than he thought he would. “Why call me a Prince? You’ve never called me that before, not really. It’s usually without meaning.” Daeron hesitated, glancing at the Lord curiously. 

“And… you  _ meant  _ it.” 

Lord Gerion smiled gently. “Of course I did, child. I have seen many princes, most of them being my grand-nephews. And none of them held any worth, and  _ yet,  _ here we stand. You have a heart that is kind, Daeron Targaryen. And Westeros needs that more than anything.” 

Daeron didn’t quite know what to say to  _ that.  _ He had no intention of taking back the Iron Throne. But for one second he could imagine, a throne of a thousand swords, iron and steel. Forged from the very breath of dragon fire. 

“I don’t have any intention of taking it back, Lord Gerion.” He murmured, glancing at his new friend with a slight smile on his lips. “I never have. It was always Viserys that possessed such desires as those…”

Gerion hummed, raising a brow at the young boy. 

“And, perhaps, what if it is your  _ fate  _ to sit on the Iron Throne?” Asked the Lannister. That merely raised Daeron’s brow at that particular thought. 

He shook his head. “I’ve never believed in fate.”

For what else was there to say? 

“I don’t believe that,” hummed Gerion. “If anything, everything around you speaks of fate. Not just you, Missandei, Alysanne and even me. We all,  _ mysteriously,  _ appeared here. Such things cannot be taken for granted.” 

Daeron blinked. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “I used to think my brother was destined to sit on the Throne. To me, it was nothing of interest. I suppose the only exciting part about it was that it was made from swords by a  _ dragon.”  _

“You no longer believe he should sit there?”

Daeron snorted in disgust at the mere thought. “My ever loving brother sold me into slavery, all for a pretty coin and someone to please him. In pleasurable ways I’d rather not speak off, he sold me and Alysanne for little.”

The thought of Viserys sitting on the Iron Throne left a bitter taste in his mouth, foul and insidious. A festering hatred that boiled away in his veins, he would rather see Viserys’  _ dead  _ rotting corpse. Preferably done by his own sword, silver meeting pale flesh. His wrath was vengeful as the sword he clutched tightly at his hip. 

“I do not believe Viserys deserves the throne, he would only destroy Westeros all in a need for his selfish greed. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone, Lord Gerion. I’m afraid he takes after our father a little  _ too  _ much.” 

Gerion winced at the thought, as that was the last thing Westeros needed. 

“The throne holds power over my family, and I fear it more than anything else. Look at what greed has cost us all.” 

Gerion laughed. “You are wise beyond your years, my Prince.” 

And Daeron for one moment could  _ see.  _ The time where it was he that stood upon the lands of Westeros riding a dragon of the likes that hadn’t been seen in  _ hundreds  _ of years. The burning flames, and the ashes of those that had once stood up against his blood. The Lannisters, the Baratheons and all else. 

“My brother will never take back the Seven Kingdoms,” Daeron said. He had known it was true from a very young age, when his brother had found more pleasant activities with the drunk and wretched. When he all but  _ begged  _ for power and never sought or took, Viserys Targaryen would never make it to the lands of Westeros. Not even with the help of a thousand ships. 

Gerion frowned in thought. “Your brother sounds like a man I ought to avoid.”

“That would be wise, my lord.” He said. “The only way Viserys would ever make it to the Seven Kingdoms is if he had help. Great help. Even then, what would be wanted from him to possess such need. But so, he would also have to  _ defeat  _ his enemies. And in that, he would fail.”

“Hm,” hummed Gerion. 

“ _ Excuse me?”  _ Asked Daeron as he approached another woman working in the stalls, chopping up the glowing fish with a finesse he could never manage. “ _ Could you tell me how to get to the Temple of Knowledge?”  _ She glanced up at him, her silver curls swaying in the wind. The moonlight made her all the more beautiful, it made everything incredibly so. He found. 

The worker nodded, pointing at the left alley with a smile. He knew, of course, there was only one that had to be taken and when three appeared it was rather hard to know. Especially when he knew nothing of the land that he walked upon, or the mysterious people and their simple ways. But, by the looks of their culture, nothing was quite that simple here. Nor would it ever be. 

The alleyway was dark under the starry night sky, for once there wasn’t a crimson glow above in sight. The raining ash was nowhere to be seen, and he couldn’t help but rejoice in it. They barely made it through the darkness, Daeron glanced back at Alysanne, or who appeared to be her. She had, after all, been unusually quiet on their journey through the wondrous city. 

Daeron glanced up at the looming temple that seemed to hover over everything except the proud Palace. 

“Do you think they’ll have books on magic?” Asked Alys, glancing at her friend with all the curiosity she could afford. 

Daeron nodded, commenting that it would be rather stupid if they did not. These people were Valyrians, of course they had scripts on magic. It was in their blood, throwing through their veins with a sense of power that others simply did not possess. Some would say they were gifted by the Gods that looked down upon them all. 

“It  _ would  _ be silly if they did not,” murmured Alysanne in agreement. She had been thinking of them all night, the odd thought of the magic that echoed throughout the lands. The creatures that looked very similar to dragons, that flew about like birds. Surely they were magic? And there  _ must  _ be such books on them? 

“I’m looking for Targaryen magic,” Daeron said. 

“Yes,” sighed Gerion. “I don’t think that will be easy to find.”

Daeron knew that. Magic was something he hadn’t even considered in his life until he had come to this land. And perhaps, in such things as these, fate did exist. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that on his search for life he had arrived in a land ripe and humming full of magic. A secret city that had whole  _ temples  _ dedicated towards the practice! Daeron was a believer in many things, and magic was one of them. He had seen enough from the Priests that had arrived in Volantis from Asshai. Woven in silken red, whispering in a tongue that was twisted and foul. Forming creatures of deceit from their mere hands. Magic such as  _ that  _ was to be contained and viewed as evil. Of course. 

“I know,” muttered Daeron. “But I feel I  _ have  _ to seek out the Temple. I don’t know why. But I must, there is nothing else to it.” 

“Hmm,” hummed Gerion. “And yet, you don’t believe in fate?” He teased, laughing at the scowl that twisted across the boy’s lips. Daeron was far too somber and serious for his age, much like his elder brother from what he could remember. Rhaegar had elegance and kindness once. A  _ very  _ long time ago, when he breathed on the soil of their land. But that had been taken from him, brutally and cruelly. But, above all, with his time in the Kings Landing well spent he had seen the brooding nature that the Prince Rhaegar had possessed. 

He rolled his eyes, shoving the lord gently into the stone marble walls that they passed. 

“Oh  _ my,”  _ breathed Alysanne in awe. The Temple was a magnificent sight to see indeed, the white pillars reached well up into the clouds that misted above the mountains. The roof hiding amongst the twinkling stars that were missed already. Daeron wished with everything that he could live in the city that held a life to it that he had  _ never  _ seen. It was marvellous, even the flicking torches of light seemed to emit such wonder. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Gerion said. “Are those  _ diamonds?”  _ He asked bewildered, there were a few at the temple they resided in but these ones were beyond belief. 

“They’re huge,” muttered Alys. 

The entrance was just as elaborate, swirls of gold arching up the pillars towards the blue roof above. Daeron blinked at the floating books that seemed to whizz from one side of the room to the other. His head spun at the very sight of more magic, Valyria seemed to be full of it. 

“Are those magical studies?” Wondered Alysanne aloud as she looked to the children being taught. She couldn’t help but be fond of such a place as this that refused to differentiate between women and men.  _ This  _ was all that she had wanted, to hold power of her own, her mother when she knew her and often said she held too much of her father’s family in her. And not enough of her own. Quite clearly. 

“It appears so,” whispered Daeron. As he glanced at a student that had managed to levitate a book. The child could barely have been four, a proud accomplishment indeed. 

“I wish  _ I  _ could do that,” grumbled Alysanne with a small pout tugging at her lips. Gerion and Daeron could only chuckle, but they would be fools to deny that they didn’t have the same wishes and desires as Alys. It would be incredibly hard in life not to want such a thing, magic was unobtainable. But now, both had to rethink things. 

“Don’t we all,” chuckled Gerion. As he knew well enough that as a child he had wanted nothing more to travel the world and discover the wonders of everything that could ever be seen. Whether it was the ShadowLands or Volantis, and the lost lands of Valyria. But clearly they weren’t as lost as everyone believed. 

The group parted in surprise at the woman that greeted them, her orange eyes bright and luminous, peering at them with a funny quirked brow. Those eyes lit up in utter delight as she stared at Daeron, a wild grin pulling at her lips. Her teeth revealed to be nothing but fangs, something which frightened Alysanne and Daeron more than anything. Gerion merely stared, curious to whom or  _ what  _ she was. There was little humanity in those eyes of hers. 

This much was clear. 

“Daeron Targaryen,” greeted the stranger. “We’ve been waiting a  _ very  _ long time for you. It’s been hundreds of years now. But I see you’ve come.”

She smiled softly at the Prince. 

“Welcome home, my child.”’


	7. Seven

**LYARRA** liked to watch them fight, but there was nothing more joyful than fighting  _ with  _ them. Which, according to the Lord Commander, wasn’t allowed as her father had refused and she had no permission to do anything such as that. Her training could only be done with the Commander or her dearest friend, Theon. But that certainly didn’t mean the others did not watch. As she watched them, and on the odd occasion, got quite a laugh out of it. Including the mere sight of Dareon stumbling about because he couldn’t swing a sword to save his own life. 

“ _ Seven Gods, _ ” laughed Dareon. “Would you look at that, could he be any fatter?” 

Lyarra gazed at the boy that stumbled through the door of the armory. He was far too large to be doing any good for the Wall, unless he could cook of course. Even the boys, few of them that she and Theon had befriended, noticed her absolute state of disbelief. But they supposed it couldn’t be helped, the little plump boy was enshrouded with his fur cloak. Wearing it uncomfortably, but the boy was clearly used to such wealth as that. It was quite frankly, hard to miss. He was a Southron. The rich wealth only made that all the more obvious to see. 

“Th-They told me I was to come here fo-for training,” he spluttered. 

“A lordling,” Pyp muttered to Lyarra. “Southron, most likely near Highgarden.” And she didn’t doubt him for one second, Pyp had traveled. He often whispered to her in a friendly tone. Telling Lyarra of all the places he had been across the Seven Kingdoms. 

_ Was she a fool to have such faith in him?  _

Ser Alliser sneered at the boy, Lyarra barely suppressed the groan of exasperation herself. She knew from the very sight of the boy that Thorne would despise the very sight of him.

It couldn’t be helped, she supposed. 

“It would seem they have run short of poachers and thieves down south. Now they send us pigs to man the Wall. Is fur and velvet your notion of armor, my Lord of Ham?”

Lyarra would  _ never  _ admit to almost laughing at that in particular, although it was rather amusing. Which she would deny till her very last breath. 

It took them, at the very  _ least,  _ half an hour of their time watching the Southron Lordling get into armor that was of their own. Despite the boy bringing his own, Ser Alliser had turned that down as soon as the words had slipped past his new charge’s lips. But Lyarra mostly assumed that was so he could laugh about, in his own mind, and smirk disdainfully at the boy as he tried to fit into  _ anything.  _ But it simply wouldn’t do. Lyarra had stood there for minutes on end, twenty soon becoming thirty as she waited to watch them train. As she always liked to do. 

_ Ser Alliser was rather cruel.  _

It was such a shame she was ever so fond of him. And he, of her. 

“Let us hope you are not as inept as you look,” Ser Alliser said. “Halder, see what Ser Piggy can do.” The Knight spun on his heel to point a thin finger at Lyarra who merely rose a brow. 

“I don’t want to see a single  _ blade  _ in your hands. I won’t have you training with these heathens, nor shall the Lord Commander.”

He gazed at her sternly, she couldn’t help but blush. As it was  _ him  _ that often caught her trying to train with them, far more than she ought to. 

She winced, Lyarra didn’t know whether it was from sympathy or shame at being caught. She wouldn’t wish Halder on anyone, as there was none in the training yards that was strong as  _ him.  _ If Sansa were here, Lyarra was sure she’d be swooning at his muscles. But his lack of title was more likely to place a scowl on her lips. 

“This won’t be pleasant,” murmured Pyp. 

And it wasn’t, it really wasn’t. Lyarra found no pleasure in watching the fight, it was quite clear who would win from the beginning. But she hadn’t known how  _ quickly  _ he would give up. 

“I yield,” the boy had sniffled rather pathetically. “No more,  _ I yield!  _ Don’t hit me.”

Only those that were cruel laughed at him, and there were quite a lot of  _ them.  _ She winced. 

“On your feet, Ser Piggy.” 

The boy stumbled, mud gathered on his armor, far more could be said about that instead of his tearful eyes. Fearful and cautious, eyeing them all as if they were wolves. 

“Pick up your sword.” 

But the lordling had yet to remove himself from the rolling mud as he slipped once more.  _ Landing on his fat ass,  _ as Theon would later say. 

“Hit him with the flat of your blade until he finds his feet.” 

Lyarra bristled, glaring furiously at her trainer as he ordered the poor boy to be beaten. Halder certainly didn’t hesitate, but at the very least she could bake him a cake later for being gentle of-sorts. Being hit by a sword could never be classified as  _ gentle.  _ But Halder did it as kindly as he could, which was more than could be said about her mentor, Ser Alliser. 

“You can hit him harder than that!”

Lyarra closed her eyes from the sorrow and shame she felt as the terrified boy wailed and screeched in pain. The thump landing on the leather in which he wore, the lordling squealed as he rolled about in the mud trying to hide away from the ferocious sword that was, as always, a weapon of great pain. There was little else to call it by, as she very well knew. 

Lyarra took a step forward, but didn’t make it all that far before Pyp held her back. 

“Lya,  _ no. _ ”

“On your feet,” Thorne ordered. But the poor boy merely stumbled about, his fat little legs rolling about in the mud beneath his feet. “Ser Piggy is starting to grasp the notion.”

They all seemed to laugh at  _ that.  _

“Again.” 

Halder lifted his blade, flat and silver, the boy waited for the thump. 

“Cut us off a ham!” Rast demanded, laughing jovially as there was nothing more amusing in the whole of Westeros to watch. 

Lyarra shook her head, for she couldn’t watch it. She  _ couldn’t.  _ Lyarra reached for a blade, drawing it with so little trouble. Running towards the men with her black skirts and trousers flicking up mud as she went (she never wore skirts without trousers) but Lyarra was determined. 

“No!” She screamed, holding the sword tightly in her hands like a Targaryen Queen of old. 

A warrior. 

“Halder,  _ please. _ ” 

Ser Alliser looked positively furious. 

“Lyarra!” He growled wrathfully. “I won’t have it! You can’t be fighting these battles, they’re for the  _ men  _ of the Night’s Watch only!” He huffed, glancing at her in exasperation. “And certainly  _ not  _ for a Lady of the North.” 

“But I’m not!” Screeched Lyarra, tears of heartbreak slipping from her purple gaze. “I’m a bastard! And I’ll always be one. So, please, Ser Alliser! Let me fight! For  _ him,  _ at the very least. There is no honor in beating a fallen man. He yielded. You know this.” 

Halder nodded, glancing at Ser Alliser with raised brows. “He yielded.” 

Those dark brown eyes peered into her own, asking a question that she knew he would voice. In a hushed whisper he leant forward, gripping tightly at the sword which rested at his side.

“Are you  _ very  _ sure?” He asked with a frown. 

Lyarra nodded, stubbornly lifting her chin for all the world to see. 

_ See me.  _

“Then you shall fight for him, Lady Lyarra. Show me your steel.” 

Lyarra held her sword up to her face, peered at him from behind the blade. Her fingers twitching against the silver steel, cold and lifeless. It felt bitter against her pale flesh. 

“Lady Lyarra wishes to defend Ser Piggy! So we shall make an exercise of it. Rat, Pimple, help our Stone Head here.” 

Rast and Albett moved closer to the strong boy, not much older than ten and six. Halder was a fierce sight to be seen, even for Lyarra’s eyes. And for the very first time, she was  _ afraid.  _

“Three of you ought to be sufficient enough to make Lady Piggy squeal all you need to do is get through Princess Visenya,” the men chuckled at such a joke as this. 

Ser Alliser leaned close to the boys, his brows furrowed in barely concealed rage. 

“If I see blood on her skin, I will  _ gut  _ you all!” He hissed under his breath, smiling grimly at Lyarra who merely held her sword all the tighter. 

“Stay behind me,”she murmured. She nervously glanced at the men, she had faced Lord Commander Mormont, of course. But beating  _ three  _ opponents was a little far fetched. 

Lyarra blinked, gazing at Pyp in surprise as the boy stood next to her, tall and proud. 

“Three to two will make for better sport,” the boy said with a cocky grin. Pyp dropped the visor and grabbed his sword, Lyarra gaped at him and Grenn as the other boy stood before her. Her heart thumped in joy at the pure  _ loyalty  _ of her new friends she had found at the Wall. 

Theon joined them with an exasperated smirk, claiming that Lyarra was nothing but trouble. Always had been and it would forever be so, but she couldn’t help but love them all for it. 

“Why are you waiting?” 

Lyarra leaped, fast and rather viciously. Her sword skills had improved far more than when she trained within the high stone walls of Winterfell. Halder barely had any time to defend against the brutality which was Lyarra Snow. 

Lyarra shoved the boy backwards, which was rather embarrassing for Halder as it was him that was older by a few years,  _ and  _ she was  a girl. He certainly couldn’t lose to her. But Lyarra, for all her shortcomings with a sword, had been taught to fight at the hands of Ser Rodrik. And Halder, in the face of intelligence, lacked in defence. 

The battering of steel echoed from one side of the training yard to the other. Lyarra yelped, stumbling back into the mud as the boy almost decapitated her with his sword. Much to the burning rage of Ser Alliser, who was quickly watching his best trainee lost all of his temper. And Halder, as observed, wasn’t best to be left with a sword in his hands when he lost the certain control. The others breathed a sigh of relief as Lyarra stumbled back into the mud. Landing with a squelch, her skirts covered. The flat side of the sword thumped into her shoulder, she couldn’t help but groan in pain. Baring her teeth in rage, she swiftly cut at his legs. She watched with vicious joy as he tumbled to the ground holding his leg in pain, and Lyarra couldn’t have been anymore proud. 

As was Ser Alliser. 

Grenn and Pyp were doing fine without her help, perhaps Grenn more than Pyp. But they certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves, and she couldn’t quite blame them. Lyarra leapt again, fast and brutally quick, banging the helm as it echoed throughout the yard. Pyp, who had been struggling, beat him quickly at that. Theon kicked the man in the ribs, finding great delight at his tormentor's pain. But to be fair, almost  _ all  _ of the Night’s Watch had been inexcusably cruel to the Greyjoy. Albett had all but fled, screeching that he had yielded from the top of his lungs. 

Ser Alliser glanced at his men in disdain. They had been decimated by Lyarra and her friends so easily. It was either proof that she was quickly becoming quite accomplished with the sword, or his men were well and truly pathetic. He would much rather prefer the former. 

“The mummer’s farce has gone on long enough for today!” Raged Ser Alliser as he stormed from the yard, a heavy grim frown tugging at his lips. 

Dareon hauled Halder up onto his feet who merely scowled furiously at Lyarra. Throwing off his helm on the ground with a huff, his temper flared in furious anger. 

“For an instant, I thought I finally had you, Snow.”

Lyarra smirked, “No. I’m afraid not. You’ll have to try  _ better  _ next time.”

There was nothing more Halder despised than her smug little grin, it was always worn in the face of battle. Which, to be fair, was just. 

Lyarra winced, rubbing at her shoulder which ached all the more. 

“Did he hurt you?” Asked the strange boy that she had so fiercely defended. Lyarra’s viciousness in the eyes of some, was a beautiful sight to behold. 

“I’ll be fine,” mumbled Lyarra. Rolling her shoulder with a wince, but as she knew very well, that a few bruises were  _ nothing  _ when one fought with a sword. 

“My name is Samwell Tarly, of Horn,” the young boy hesitated. “I mean, I  _ was  _ of Horn Hill, until I left to come and take the black. My father is Lord Randyll, a bannerman to the Tyrells of Highgarden. I used to be his heir, only…”’

“I’m Lyarra Snow, Lord Stark’s bastard, of Winterfell.” She smiled softly. 

Samwell nodded. “I-If you want, you can call me Sam. My mother calls me Sam.” 

“You can call her  _ Lady  _ Lyarra,” Pyp said as he felt oddly possessive of the girl that had been ever so kind to them all. Like  _ hell  _ the fat little boy would be calling Lyarra by her name. 

Lyarra rolled her eyes in exasperation. 

“These two are Grenn and Pypar,” she said. 

“Grenn’s the ugly one,” smirked Pyp. 

The other boy scowled furiously at such words as these.

“ Oh,  _ please,  _ you’re uglier than me. At least I don’t have ears like a bat!” 

Sam simply frowned grimly, bowing his head at the kindness they had afforded him. 

“My thanks to all of you.” 

"Why didn't you get up and fight?" Grenn demanded.

“I wanted to,” whined Sam. “Truly. I just, I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to hit me anymore. I-I fear I’m a coward. My lord father always said so.”

Lyarra seethed in barely concealed rage at the sound of this man, a father that would abuse the emotions of his son so easily. For how could such a thing be done? 

Sam lowered his eyes to the ground, embarrassed to be before them. Lyarra merely put a comforting hand on his shoulder, it was for more kindness than he deserved. Or so, Samwell seemed to believe. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I don’t mean t-to be like I am.” Samwell left towards the armory, his own grief slumping his shoulders. 

“Sam!” Called out Lyarra with a slight grin on her lips. “You were hurt,” she said. “Tomorrow you’ll do better!” 

Samwell merely shook his head grimly. 

“No I won’t,” Sam said with tears in his eyes. “I never do better.” 

Grenn huffed, crossing his arms with a fierce scowl on his lips. “Nobody likes cravens!” The boy shook his head, clearly embarrassed. “I wish we hadn’t helped him. What if they think we’re craven too?” 

Lyarra snorted. “Don’t be thick, Grenn. Being kind  _ isn’t  _ craven.”

“Yeah,” Pyp told him. “You’re too stupid to be craven.”

She rolled her eyes at the pair of them. 

“Pyp, that’s  _ not  _ what I meant!” 

“I am not!” Hissed Grenn. 

“Yes you are. If a bear attacked you in the woods, you’d be too stupid to run away.” 

“I would not,” insisted Grenn. “I’d run away faster than you!”

Lyarra merely laughed, she glanced back at them as she strode towards the armory, her hand tightening on the sword at her side. She grinned at the boys behind her. 

“You’re both stupid!” Giggled Lyarra, running off through the mud towards the armory before they could catch up with her. They wouldn’t in the end, for she knew, as well as they did, that it was  _ she  _ who was faster than the both of them. 

The days moved on with a smile, Lyarra had found a great fondness of watching the many sunsets that blazed across the great blue sky. She didn’t have much to do at the castle but train, whether it was the Commander or Ser Alliser she seemed to be getting much better. And the help with her less than impressive archery was fortunate, but she found that she enjoyed nothing more than her morning spars with her new friends. Kind as they were, Grenn and Pyp were hard to beat when they fought together. But it was all the more fun. The only other man of the Watch she seemed to favour was Maester Aemon, who was kind enough to help her in the learning of  _ anything.  _ Her studious knowledge was often taken in disdainfully by men, but not him. Not Maester Aemon. 

Lyarra, much like the previous nights before, sat atop of the Wall. It was the most beautiful thing in the world, and it couldn’t help but be thought. She often watched it by herself, and on the odd occasion, Jaime Lannister. His presence in her life was still a mystery, and he was far too creepy for a Knight. The man did nothing but watch her, Ser Alliser never thought anything of it. Even thought Jaime’s silent attempt of trying to befriend her was downright odd. The only other man, or boy as he was, that seemed to watch her was Samwell Tarly. But Lyarra was more inclined to believe that the poor boy was shy and didn’t have the pure courage to socialise with others. Samwell mostly kept to himself, shying away from the other boys and men. He often looked miserable, far more than he should. 

He was a curious mystery, the Tarly boy. He was kind and considerate, with eyes that were warm like the hearth in her bedroom. There was a light to him that reminded Lyarra of the rising sun, and yet he hid away from the world as if he were nothing at all. Despite being the first-born son of a Lord. 

Lyarra sighed, rubbing her hands together, fighting against the cold wind that swept across her pale porcelain cheeks. It was cold, and her long black fur coat didn’t do much to protect her from the weather. She would have preferred to have worn pants, but the training yard was the only place she could. The Lord Commander was strict on her position as a Lady, which she was  _ not.  _ But Lord Stark had brought her into his home and raised her with his Trueborn daughters, and had been taught all the things a lady should. This, she supposed, formed an image of a  _ Lady  _ in the mind of those that lived in the North. It was far more constricting, and as she had found, society for women was poorly and left them with little rights for their own opinion. The only women that had truly been looked up into in awe were warrior queens. Those that marched into battle swinging their swords, all her life, that was what she had aspired to be. Perhaps not a  _ Queen,  _ but a warrior nonetheless. Queen, although she was a bastard, seemed like far too much of a duty. Not just to her own self character and worth but a whole civilisation of subjects to care for and rule over. And what a nightmare  _ that  _ would be. 

Lyarra bit into the warm piece of bread that she had stolen from the Kitchens when she had made her climb to the icy cold towers. 

“Is that a wolf?” Asked Samwell, glancing nervously at the Direwolf that remained loyal at her side. As he always had. 

“He’s a Direwolf,” Lyarra said. Running her long fingers through his white fur affectionately. “They’re the sigil of my father’s house.”

_ But I’m not one,  _ she thought with a bitter frown.  _ I’m not a Stark.  _

“Ours is a striding huntsman,” murmured Sam. 

Lyarra blinked in surprise, glancing at the boy with a slight smile upon her cold lips. 

“Do you like to hunt?”

Samwell seemed less than impressed with the mere  _ idea  _ of it. Shuddering in his long furs that wrapped tightly around his large body. 

“I hate it,” Sam whispered. Tears prickling in his eyes once more. The grief could be seen. 

“What’s wrong?” Asked Lyarra. “Why are you,” she hesitated slightly. “So  _ frightened? _ ” 

Sam merely shook his head. Gazing out as the sprinkles of dust, the sky was painted the most beautiful colours of purple and red. Despite the bitter wind, she couldn’t help but love it all. 

“It’s beautiful,” murmured Samwell. 

“Yes,” Lyarra said. “Back at home, in Winterfell, it wasn’t as beautiful as this. I wonder if it’s the ice.”

“Maybe,” hummed Samwell Tarly. “I’ve seen many sunsets, but they’re never  _ this  _ beautiful at Hornhill.”

The boy shivered, wrapping his cloak around him all the tighter. And despite his pudgy size and reckless non-existent skills with weaponry, Jaime Lannister watched him suspiciously in the distance. A chaperone, as Ser Alliser liked to call him. For some odd reason, the man trusted Ser Jaime to a  _ certain  _ extent. Lyarra doubted he trusted anyone completely. 

“I never thought it would be like this,” complained Sam. “All the buildings are falling down, and it’s s-so…” 

Lyarra smirked. “Cold?” Not that she could blame him for thinking such things. She could  _ feel  _ the ice crunching beneath her boots. 

Sam nodded with a frown. “I  _ hate  _ the cold. Last night I woke up in the dark and the fire had gone out and I was certain I was going to freeze to death by morning.” 

She snorted in amusement. “It must’ve be much warmer where you lived then.” 

Sam grinned, nodding with all the more enthusiasm.

“I never saw snow until last month. We were crossing the barrowlands, me and the men my father sent to see me north, and this white stuff began to fall, like soft rain. At first I thought it was so beautiful, like feathers drifting from the sky, but it kept on and on, until I was frozen to the bone. The men had crusts of snow in their beards and more on their shoulders, and  _ still  _ it kept coming. I was afraid it would never end.” 

Lyarra laughed. 

They glanced out at the shadowed land, and she of all the things in life couldn’t help but think of the wildlings and their land. She would never be able to step foot in them, Ser Alliser would drag her back kicking and screaming. Claiming that they were no place for a Lady, as would Ser Jaime who often said little at all. 

Sam shuffled, glancing down at the land with a frown, fear and dread claimed far across his chubby flushed flesh. 

Sam sniffled in barely concealed dread. He shook his head, “I don’t like high places.”

Lyarra stared at him in disbelief, it was one thing after another with him. “Why are you  _ here?  _ I don’t understand you, Sam.”

The boy glanced at her, trying to summon the strength against the growing tears in his eyes. He couldn’t. He  _ wouldn’t.  _ Being afraid and sent to the Wall was one thing but crying in front of a  _ woman  _ simply wasn’t done. Lyarra only watched him, as Sam struggled to breathe against the cruel ache in his chest. Unjustly. His father, as he very well knew, had perhaps always been a very cruel man. 

Ghost, the dearly loving Direwolf that he was leapt at the boy. Sending him tumbling to the ground, licking his face. Even though the wolf was about the same size as the Tarly boy. Lyarra’s friend was growing at a rapid speed that even  _ she  _ couldn’t keep up with, Ghost seemed to be a few inches taller by every new dawn that arrived upon them. 

Lyarra and Samwell laughed, enjoying the sweetness that came from the moment. With the setting sun and a thousand possibilities of something more. Friendship was a hard thing to find at the end of the world. Most of the men despised her, she had few allies and barely any friends at all. Except for Theon, Pyp and Grenn. Of course. 

She smiled softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sweet and so very kindly. 

“I dream about,” she murmured. “There’s this empty long hall. I’m merely an echo, and everything else is a thousand questions but there’s never an answer. Not a single  _ one!  _ I always walk faster, opening doors and shouting names. Sometimes, I think, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. It’s most my father, or Robb, maybe Arya and Uncle Benjen…”

The thought of them filled her with grief, she didn’t understand it. For surely she would be sent home soon, back to the tall towering walls of Winterfell. Where she belonged, even though at times, that didn’t feel right to her. But Lyarra knew she couldn’t go home until the Lord Commander was convinced that she could fight as well as any other man and that she was twice as good. Ser Alliser had told her often that Mormont held great expectations of her. That it had been made clear the moment Lyarra had picked up a sword that she was talented. Perhaps born with the gift of weaponry, she simply had to be trained. 

“Do you ever find anyone in your dreams?” Asked Sam, frowning at the girl. 

Lyarra merely shook her head. “No one. It’s always empty…” This was said ever so grimly, as if it were the very truth of her whole entire life. 

“Even the ravens are gone, and the stables are full of bones. And sometimes I’m drowning, consistently in so much of it.  _ In blood.  _ Running won’t do me much good, I can’t climb the towers either. It’s almost like they crumble every time. There’s so much snow and ice, but it’s not like this. Not beautiful. It’s almost…  _ evil.  _ But it’s worse in the crypts. Black and so dark. They don’t want me there, I know that now. I always have. It’s like there’s this voice. Screaming at me to get out, that I don’t belong there. And in the end, there’s this man. A shadow I suppose. And every time, it’s always  _ him. _ ”

Lyarra’s hands shook as the fear readily consumed her, she could see him now. In her own mind, taunting her. Those cold eyes that watched her from the darkness. 

“What does he do?” Asked Sam in concern. 

She shook her head, her voice flat and cold. 

“He kills me. Stabs me in the heart.”

Lyarra shivered, rubbing her arms with the leather gloves that she wore tightly. Fighting the wind and it’s howls that pierced the night. 

“Do  _ you  _ ever dream of Horn Hill?” 

“No. I  _ hated  _ it there!” He hissed with a vengeance that she knew nothing off. Lyarra couldn’t bear to hate her own home, it was all that she had ever truly known. She could dislike Lady Catelyn and Sansa all she liked too, but in a sense, they were also her family. Such things as these couldn’t very well be ignored. 

Lyarra didn’t know the Tarlys all that well, of course she remembered little bits of the House. She had, after all, been raised as a Lady of House Stark. She knew quite a bit about the Houses of Westeros, but her focus had mainly been on those of the North. She knew they had a Valyrian Steel sword and Sam’s father was a lord of Mace Tyrell. 

Not much else was known about the Tarlys, but she doubted the boy’s family were any nice. They couldn’t be, not if they were so incredibly despised. By his own firstborn son nonetheless. 

“One time,” whispered Sam. “Two men came to the Castle, warlocks from Qarth with white skin and blue lips. They slaughtered a bull of aurochs and made me bathe in the hot blood, but it didn’t make me brave as they’d promised. I got sick and retched. Father had them scourged.”

Lyarra wrinkled her nose in disgust at  _ that.  _ Yes, she could very well admit to herself, that this Lord Tarly didn’t sound all that pleasant to be around, at all. And she could happily spend the rest of her life hating his very existence. Samwell seemed like a perfectly kind boy, and she doubted that he had even wanted to join the Night’s Watch. 

Samwell shuddered. “My father threatened to kill me, you know. Told me I was his heir,” chuckled Tarly bitterly and with such hatred. “I had given him no cause to disown me, but I couldn’t be allowed to inherit the land and title that should be my brother’s. The family sword  _ had  _ to go to Dickon, as he held far more strength and courage. And  _ I,  _ amongst all of my blood wasn’t worthy to touch even the hilt. He had decided that I would announce to take the Black and forsake my claim to the lands and move North before the sun fell.”

Lyarra blinked in shock and trembling dread at such horrific words as these. She  _ knew.  _ How could she not? That the next few words were going to be just as terrible. 

“He told me that if I did not, then on the next morrow we would go hunting, and in the woods near the Castle, my horse would fall and the accident would be a terrible one. Or so my mother would grieve, over a body that had been merely killed in an  _ accident.  _ Nothing, he said, would please me more to hunt you down like the rotten filthy pig that you are.”

Lyarra held in a shaky breath, for how could it be any worse than  _ that?  _

“I would have no choice, he told me. It was either the Night’s Watch,” Sam hesitated as he swallowed the fear that consumed him. “And  _ then  _ he cut out the deer’s heart. The prey that he had been skinning. And the  _ bastard  _ looked me in the eye, as if it were me on that table.” 

Lyarra wished for nothing more than to take Samwell in her arms and comfort the poor boy. And thought with a sense of viciousness, that if she ever were to meet Lord Tarly she would cut out his own heart and  _ eat it.  _ The bastard deserved far more than that, Lyarra saw the fear in Sam’s eyes. The haunted relief at having escaped his home that he so horrifically despised. Ever so much. 

Lyarra sighed, placing her arm in his as she lead him away. “We should go back to the common hall, I think you’ll find it’s much warmer in there.”

“Why?” Asked Sam. 

She shrugged. “There will be hot cider or mulled wine. Sometimes Dareon sings for us, if he wishes too. He was almost one. A singer, that is.”


	8. Eight

**DAERON** glanced around at the Temple, his eyes landing back on the strange woman that stood before them. Her orange gaze burning with a heat that he could almost  _ feel.  _

The woman in the golden robes led them through the temple, her curious glances that were sent his way couldn’t help but make him all the more cautious. How did they  _ know?  _ Daeron had never met these people before, and yet, they knew quite a bit about him. It was nauseating. The temple hallways were as luminous as the front gates, glittering diamonds and floating torch-like lamps. A bewildering place to be. 

The deeper they walked, the more of  _ how  _ they knew him became clear. Daeron had been told many of the tales about his ancestors, but apart from the fire-breathing dragons that had flamed stars in his elder brother’s eyes it was the Dream-Weavers that were of the next highest order. They painted and  _ painted,  _ brush upon pale paper as they formed a future. It was how his ancestor had known of the fall of Valyria, and so they had fled. Prosperous in their fear. Scholars that were fated to become Queens and Kings. And there they were, his ancestor, the great Aegon Targaryen the  _ first.  _ Mounted upon his dragon as he rode through the fierce wind, his billowing coat flowing red amongst the pale clouds. Along with the ruby crown that he wore with all the regality that could be afforded. Painting after painting it spoke of his ancestors, swords raised high. And there was  _ nothing.  _ The last few ones were strange, odd even. The choking gasp of Gerion barely caught his attention, his eyes were on the stranger. 

“Ah,  _ yes _ .” The orange-eyed woman hissed, revealing a fork tongue that lived beneath her lips and pearly white teeth. “That’s Lyanna Targaryen and the birth of her daughter, Visenya. I have a painting of her wedding if you’d like to see?”

“Lyanna,” breathed Daeron, reaching out to caress the illuminated painting. “As in, Stark?”

But beyond everything, his eyes laid on the weeping child, held in the arms of who could only be Eddard Stark. Her sheets were crimson with blood, pouring down from her legs and onto the old stone floor. So much  _ blood.  _ That pale feverish face of what clearly had once been beautiful spoke only of pain, the young lady had fierce screams on her lips. And the babe, newborn but so incredibly beautiful. She spoke of hope, those dazzling little eyes. And Daeron wondered where she was? Perhaps it was foolish to believe in the possibility of her very being, and yet, the painting spoke of  _ him.  _ The events of his youth that only he could know, of secrets that he wished never to be born. Not to the eyes of the public or anyone else. But beyond the startling possibility of a niece, there was something far more terrifying that lingered in the very last painting. 

“What exactly is  _ that? _ ” Said Daeron, glaring at the man of ice that had casted his great shadow over the fragility of the human race. 

The woman bowed her head, clasping her hands tightly together as if she were praying. “He is the man of shadow, the ice that lives in the shards of his heart. Created by the weeping tree of the crimson children, a man that is not quite a  _ man.  _ I believe they call him the Other…”

Gerion choked. “A White Walker. Men of death.”

“You know of it?” Asked Daeron, bewildered at the very sight of the creature. But he knew, in the prisms of his own heart that he had seen those cruel cold eyes. In the fiercest of nightmares where the world had turned to ice. 

“They’re a myth,” laughed Gerion, hoping to all the Gods beyond that this was merely a joke. “Daeron, they’re not actually  _ real. _ Just like there is no Princess Visenya. I’m sorry, little one.”

“And yet,” whispered Daeron. “They know everything, the portraits are bound in golden wood. I know the works of these.”

And how could he not? Daeron was born from the seed of Old Valyria, he knew very well what the Dream-Weavers were capable of, the destruction of their senseless need for truth. The lives that had been decimated from a mere paint brush, visions of  _ what could be.  _ And in his eyes, for not the first time in his life, he saw the end of the very world he had known since birth. He had seen them before, the men of ice, as a child he had thought they hid in his closets. In the darkness that brought him nothing but misery and scraped knuckles. Viserys had a great fondness of exploiting such fear, the locked cupboards were his worst memory. The brutality and betrayal it bestowed. He knew them. These  _ Others,  _ they were monsters of another kind. 

But, within it all, they were very much real. 

“And Visenya?” Asked Daeron nervously, staring at the wailing babe. Perhaps he wasn’t alone in the world as he thought he was. “Is she…  _ alive? _ ”

“Yes,” cackled the woman. “They’ve painted her to be quite the wild spirit!”

And she was, or the painting certainly depicted her in such a manner. She stood tall and proud, sword raised high in her hands, a battle cry on her lips as she sliced through men as if they were nothing at all. Those eyes that were so much like his own were positively luminous,  _ a warrior Queen,  _ Daeron swallowed nervously. She looked so much like his mother, if it weren’t for the hair they could’ve been twins. The only painting he had ever seen of Rhaella Targaryen was in the Healing Halls of Volantis. An elegant show of finery, a place where he often found Viserys in his younger years of childhood. Which, in truth, he hadn’t quite left. 

Daeron, after all, was only ten and four. 

“But come,” cooed the odd woman as she reached up to stroke his pale cheeks. Daeron barely moved out of the way in time, those long claws were a hideous sight to be seen. “I’m not here to show you the Targaryen past or present, the future is what needs to be said. Come.” 

Gerion grasped at the Prince’s elbow tightly. “Are you  _ sure  _ we should be following this woman? She seems a little… not all there.”

And the Lannister Lord wasn’t entirely wrong, Daeron knew this. There was a feverish light in those orange eyes that made fear trickle down his spine. Chilling and cold. 

Alysanne nodded, glancing back at the painting of Lyanna Stark with a grim frown. “Gerion’s right, Dae. There’s something not right about her, I don’t like this.” 

He rolled his eyes in exasperation, carrying down the tunnels and into the pitch black darkness much to the horror of Alysanne. But he knew she had never been fond of the dark. 

“The scrolls are here,” murmured orange-eyes as she fumbled around a desk. Daeron could only gaze in amazement as she clicked her fingers, it echoed from one wall to another. The flames erupted, lighting the room in a yellow haze of light. It was magic, another art that he couldn’t help but admire. 

The room was an office, leather couches and cabinets filled to the brim with old tomes. He could feel the magic vibrating from the very pages that were filled with ink and dust. It was a quiet place, warm and filled with a slight sense of joy. A studious home for the Scholar. The Valyrian quickly unlatched the cabinet, opening it with her magic as she summoned the oldest book that could be seen. Dust covered it from one side to the other, musty and old. 

“This is yours,” said the woman. “It belonged to your ancestors, a record of the greatest prophecies in the name of man. But there is only  _ one  _ that hasn’t been told.” 

She opened the book, turning to a page that had scribbles of something and a monster.  _ The monster.  _ It looked back at him. 

Daeron blinked at the script. It was hard to read and clearly written in another form of Valyrian that he didn’t understand. 

“It’s called the Unburnt,” she said. “I was told by my mother, and she was told by hers, and on it goes. The endless cycle. In the end, one of my ancestors' lines would give this to you. I never thought it would be me.” 

Gerion thought it was all nothing, mere whispered rumours. But Daeron knew that the man hadn’t been raised to believe in the wondrous abilities of magic. He knew of it all, Daeron had learnt from the knowledge of his elder brother and the history he had sought. Yes, his brother was cruel, but in the art of history he had a good mind. Callous but intelligent, something that in the wrong hands, should be feared. But he doubted his brother would ever become anything more than a beggar. 

“Why? What importance does it hold?”

“It’s instructions.” She said, a sly smirk stretching across her lips. “For the destruction of the Others. But you will need the sword and the fire.”

Daeron had never heard words so confusing in his life, what of a sword and fire? He knew the words of his own house, as did most educated men and women. The Targaryen family were known throughout most of the lands, they had birthed a history that couldn’t be denied, not even in the face of the Seven or the Old. 

“You need the fire,” mumbled the woman. 

“What fire?” Asked Daeron. 

“Your brother didn’t have it, either of them. Perhaps Rhaegar could’ve possessed such talents, he had the heart for it. Kind and good. His reputation might’ve been tarnished, but his soul was not. He was as worthy as you.”

_ Mayhaps she is mad?  _

It was thought with care, but deliberate. The stranger whom he knew nothing of, clearly held little sanity within her. Those eyes were as bright as the sun, a beaming light of insincerity and madness. His own brother looked like that of a dim moon compared to such a woman as she. Gerion didn’t like her, nor did his Alys. Perhaps he should’ve listened to their opinions on the matter of her state of mind. 

“But you,” she croaked. Pointing her shuddering wrinkled finger under the light of the flickering fire. “You hold the  _ flame! _ ” 

The fire jumped, looking as if it were climbing up the old stone walls. There were no diamonds to be found here, nothing but the smell of stale old bread and the musty sense of books. Papers that had been thrown away and long forgotten. It reminded him vaguely of the ancient libraries he had snuck in as a child, crawling through the gutters to see the swirling words, jumping from paper to paper. That’s what they had looked like at the age of  _ six.  _

“Does he?” Drawled Gerion. One brow raised. “How interesting. I think it’s time we go.” 

Daeron nodded his consent, the tome tucked safely under his arm. He almost wished he had more time to steal and raid the books that were locked in this marvellous home of magic. She reached out with long claws and a bitter sneer, blood fell from his pale flesh with a  _ drip.  _ But she didn’t let go, he could only stare. Refusing to allow the bitter sense of fear to take hold, he stood his ground. Glaring with all his might at the woman that held little clarity. 

“Let me go.”

“I  _ must  _ show you the fire,” she breathed. His arm was released, the young boy flinged himself backwards and into the arms of his friends. Fearful at the sight of the insanity that festered in the woman like a wound, digging and  _ digging.  _ He wondered if she was sick, or if in this horrific land, she had been cursed. 

She snuck off into the shadows, Daeron didn’t quite know what he was waiting for. Or why he was, when it had been made quite clear that she held little common sense, but something in him startled. He couldn’t leave, he ought not too. It was a knowing that had allowed him to survive on the wasteful streets, where he had scavenged from one market to another. Apples and oranges were all he had delighted in, and even then, food was sparse and hardly ever there. From the young age of seven he had been able to count each rib beneath his shrunken pale flesh. But there was a knowledge that burned in his mind, one that had gifted him luck and fortitude. And it sung.  _ Stay,  _ it whispered.  _ We need the fire.  _

Maybe he was mad as well, it wasn’t as if it was impossible. The tales that had been told about the crimes and unfortunate sins of Aerys Targaryen were horrific. Of the kind that had made him weep, for everything Viserys had said were  _ lies!  _ But as he grew, this much wasn’t a surprise. Lying was something that Viserys enjoyed, far more than he did. Daeron had never favoured the deceit that was untruths. 

“Daeron!” Hissed Alysanne, “we should go! Before she comes back.”

But he didn’t heed her, not that it mattered all that much. For she already came back with an old wooden chest, carved into it was the  _ three-headed dragon.  _ Marked in crimson red, ash littered the box and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was another treasure of his family that had survived the great Doom. Not much had. 

“It is for you,” she sighed. Watching in delight as the key was placed in, wrinkled claws twisted in desperately. Finding enjoyment from the mere  _ click,  _ the lid was pried open and the sight was enough to stop three beating hearts. Daeron could only gaze in awe, for surely not! 

“That’s not possible,” murmured Gerion. He knew what they were, they all did. The eggs sat happily amongst the wool and fur, pale stone with jagged stripes of glowing crimson red. They were as bright as the fire that crept up the walls, flickering from the force of power. Daeron stepped forward cautiously, his leather boots squeaking against the stone cold floor. 

“Oh  _ my, _ ” he muttered. “Those are dragon eggs.”

He picked one of them up gently in his hands, the golden glow reaching out towards his own shuddering sweaty palms. Nervously, he smiled down at the egg, running a finger along the old ancient stone. It hummed in pleasure, Daeron almost jumped in surprise at this. His purple gaze widening in shock as felt the life that thrived inside. It was  _ alive.  _ They all were enclosed in the golden glow that kept them warm and bright. Of all the drawings he’d seen of dragon eggs, these ones looked nothing like those he had seen. He could very well imagine beneath the fluttering of his eyelids, the shadow of beating wings and the eternal flames of fire. Of the wind rushing through his pale hair, of finally, after all the years of abuse, being  _ free.  _

He wouldn’t need an army, this was considered under the harsh glare of the glowing light. He could take it all back amongst the leathery spikes of a dragon’s back. Nothing would stand in his way, he could watch his brother  _ burn.  _ For the crimes that others had committed, for the sins of slavery that he had so easily expressed. Viserys had never cared for the chains that were cursed so tightly around those that held little worth in the eyes of those that held the golden bags of wealth. Daeron had never been one of those, his own wealth came from a useless title that nobody believed in. Not anymore. 

Alysanne placed her hand on the golden eggs, hissing sharply as it came away burnt. Her flesh sizzling, she screeched as a balm was applied. She wrinkled her nose through the pain, pale tears in her eyes. It smelt like lemon grass, something that she had never liked or, had  _ ever,  _ been remotely fond of. 

“Don’t touch the eggs, you  _ fool! _ ” Hissed the woman, her eyes gazing upon Alys in disdain. “They are only for the hands of an Unburnt.” 

Alysanne was no fool. She had been raised amongst the streets of Lys for the first few years of her life, scavenging with the rats and pests for even the slightest crumb. She was only three years old when her mother had grown sick of her bawling presence, it was Viserys in a rare moment of kindness that had taken her along with them. From city to city. And land to land. It was in Volantis where she settled with her friend, Daeron. Hiding in a small apartment that stood beneath the high towers of the Healing Halls, it was perhaps the only education she had ever received. For four years she had worn those robes, blue and silver, proudly like with everything else in her short-lived life. She was an intelligent girl that knew her way around books and mathematics, subjects that only the Lords of Westeros ought to know. 

Even now, in moments like these, she saw the spark in Daeron’s eyes the single  _ second  _ he held that dragon egg in his palms. She knew, without a doubt, that if he didn’t hatch the egg it would drive him to a point of obsession. A weakness that he had always possessed, a need to prove to the world that he was better than all the Targaryens before him. And Viserys, of course, could only be blamed for such a thirst as this. That spark of vengeance seemed to glow under the golden light that came forth from the eggs. 

Luminous as it was, only a sense of bitterness infested her heart. 

He looked like a Targaryen, she thought, holding that egg close to his chest. Alysanne, was no  _ fool.  _ She had known, she had always known that in the end, Daeron would come for his throne. The boy she had known had whispered and prayed for a safe world, but fate often led those unwilling on journeys that one wished not to travel. If she had a choice in this life, her heart wished to stay with the mother that had abandoned her. She  _ wished  _ that her mother had a kinder sense of being, but it was not to be. It would never be so, no matter how much she prayed. And if, on the odd chance that Daeron wished to press for his claim on the throne she would hardly stop him. Perhaps there was no way to prevent fate, there never was. 

_ And could I hope for that? Home?  _

  
  


“They’re alive,” murmured Daeron. “I can  _ feel  _ them.” He glanced up at the stranger with a slight smile pulling at his lips. “Thank you, what you’ve given me. There are no words for it.” 

Daeron knew this, as did the stranger. She merely bowed her head as if she were a servant. But the knowledge in her eyes spoke of the truth, she had cared for them for years, as had her mother before her. A tradition that had been catered too for hundreds of years. Perhaps even a thousand, her bloodline was strong and proud, nobody had served the Targaryens as long as they had. A tradition that had been grasped, wilfully and with a sense of pride. And Anya couldn’t have been any prouder that it was  _ her  _ that had gifted the Dragon King his future. 

He saw it, even if he didn’t want to. The throne that he desired with  _ fire  _ and  _ blood,  _ but at the same time he wanted to be as far away from it as he could. It was truly a disease, one that his father had possessed and then his brother, Viserys. A line of terrifying betrayal and deceit. 

“They will hatch,” he said. So very sure of it. “I know they will. They’ll be  _ mine. _ ” 

A savage wave of possessiveness shifted over his soul, like that of a shadow. Clinging on to all that he had lost, Daeron had never possessed much in his life. Only Alys, the dearest friend that a heart could ever ask for. She was kind and sweet, the friend that studied at the Halls of Healing all so she could learn to heal the scars and bruises on his pale flesh. There wasn’t a single disloyal bone in her body,  _ that,  _ in the end, was exactly what Viserys despised about her. For he had never had such love, the only kind the Prince had remembered was his mother. 

“You must be one,” Anya said. “They are pure fire, as are you. My King.” 

“I am no King, I wear no crown.”

“You will be. Anya knows, I see.” 

Daeron blinked, bewildered as the woman talked of herself in another opinion. As if she  _ wasn’t  _ Anya. She was a strange one, with eyes that flashed from gold to milky white. He wondered for a moment if she was off the Gods, chosen to see everything on the land of man. Not a Dream-Weaver, not quite that. But something else just as rare; a Time-Keeper was what they were called in old Valyrian myth. But he doubted that was what she was, one hadn’t been seen in twenty  _ thousand  _ years. The bells in Asshai would be rung at such a birth, they would know it and whisper from one ear to another of the secret land that lived within the ash and flame. A land that none other knew, a place of magic and secrets. Wondrous in its own right, as luminous as their Red God. Crimson, but so very  _ beautiful.  _

Time-Keepers were a myth, of course, but the very depiction of them had never held a sense of sanity. Beings that had a loose grip on reality because of all that they could see, he supposed that was the difference between a Keeper and a Dreamer, they simply  _ knew.  _ Things that ought not to be said, not in one life or the next. It was a subject that was often discussed by literary educated scholars, but often they did not consider magic as a means of possibility. 

He smiled slightly, taking the heavy chest into his hand. Placing the tome with the eggs.

“And that’s your name? Anya?” 

She nodded frantically, her long nails digging into the golden robe that flashed under the light of the glittering flames. 

“Anya Sonterri, of the House of Knowledge. We’ve guarded this temple for thousands of years,  _ your  _ temples.” 

“Surely the temples would belong to the Rulers?” Asked Gerion. For he had seen the Palace on the hill, bright and marble white. Glistening like a thousand diamonds under the light of the moon. 

Anya sniffed as if the very thought was absurd, she recoiled in disdain. Her features became even more filthy than they currently were, ugly and unbecoming. 

“ _ They  _ aren’t our rulers! The filthy pests have no knowledge of ruling, they sit in their little thrones and dictate for the rich! Thinking themselves above the law of men,  _ as if  _ they’re the chosen leaders that the Gods have chosen!”

Anya spat on the floor near Gerion’s feet. Disdainful at the words that had fled from her perilous tongue and lips. 

Daeron held his hands up as he tried to find peace with the mysterious woman.  _ Creature.  _

“Easy now, he means no harm. He was simply asking a question. As do I. Who are they? The rulers that look after this land.” 

Anya sneered. “Slavers. Old Valyrian blood. They took the poor into chains, those that had fled from the Doom to this sacred land.” 

Daeron gritted his teeth against the fury that bubbled in his chest. There was nothing more in the world that he hated than  _ slavers.  _

“And why have the people stood for it? Surely these men don’t have an army?” 

“No, but we cannot change the ways. It is not allowed, King Malarys descends from the Unburnt. Dragon riders. Only another can dethrone him.” 

“Oh… It is tradition then?” 

Anya sighed, folding her arms forlornly at the thought of their king and the cruelties he had cast upon his people. As if they were nothing to him. 

Anya was clearly frightened of this man, a king that had descended from Dragon Lords. But that did not make him one, it seemed even in these far parts of land that they didn’t exist either. Eggs were not the same as a  _ Dragon.  _ He knew this, as did his friends. Travellers of his. 

“Yes,” she said. “We only accept the strongest rulers and Malarys ancestor was the only one that had a dragon. Strength.” 

“And if that man becomes weak and without a dragon? Why haven’t your people thrown him out of these lands?” 

Anya seemed to find the thought preposterous, as if the very thought was sin. She blinked, horrified at the words that had been spoken. 

Her long fingers dug into the ancient wood of her desk, feeling the bright energy of the carvings that were so very  _ Valyrian.  _ Powerful with the most ancient and worshiped magic in the world, she could feel it in her veins. Something she would never feel again if she considered such thoughts as those, her shaking hands would have to end her own life if she acted on such a betrayal as that. Tradition was more important than anything else, prideful and true. 

“I could not.  _ We  _ could not. Malarys is of the seed of King Balarys, the ancient ruler who walked amongst the skies. Betraying him would mean death to the legacy of a Dragon Lord!” She hissed, outraged at the mere thought. “Only another birth of dragon life could dethrone him. And it certainly won't be at my own hand. I am many things, but a traitor is not one of them.” 

Their loyalty was profound. And perhaps his life would’ve been much better if Westeros had believed in such things as these. 

“That is honorable, Anya.” Daeron couldn’t help but smile, tilting his head respectfully. 

“Honour is worth  _ everything, _ ” she breathed. As in this strange land, in the valley of the Smoky Hills, honourable actions were what gained pride and nobility. 

The same could not be said for other lands, although Anya had lived only by the Smoky Hills she knew enough of the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms beyond. They were selfish and held the hearts of a thousand cowards, feeble and worth nothing in the sight of the Eternals.

_ The Thirteen Gods.  _

“Some believe that in other lands,” murmured Daeron. “But they never act upon such kneaded feelings.” 

He knew it was true, his brother often spoke off honour and victory in the face of battle. Silver against silver, but things like that only brought about the heady sense of death. It was something that he had never wished to see, battles were for warriors and men that dreamt of the taste of blood on the tongue. 

In Viserys’ mind this had made him weak, a feeble little Prince that had desired nothing but the lemons that grew on the trees in the lustrous gardens of their first home. The only place where Daeron had truly known peace, but it was all lost to him now. He would never taste those lemons again, but the ones in the crate in their new home would do fine. At least, in this strange place, he was far away from the boisterous fists of his elder brother. He would  _ never  _ bear the scars of his abuse ever again. 

It filled his chest with pride, to know that in the end, it was him that had survived. Viserys would die at the hand of his own silver blade,  _ perhaps,  _ Daeron considered,  _ maybe I’ll choke him.  _ It was the kind of death his traitorous brother deserved. Cruel and yet, merciful. He was not his father. 

Nor would he ever be. 


	9. Nine

**LYARRA** sighed, standing atop of the decking. The wooden railing was a sturdy thing to lean against, she found. But the sight of her friends, at the very least, was enough to bring a smile to her lips. Even though the day was miserable enough. 

“You are as hopeless as any boys I have ever trained,” Thorne said with a sneer on his lips. “Your hands were made for manure shovels, not for swords, and if it were up to me, the lot of you would be set to herding swine. But last night I was told that Gueren is marching five new boys up the Kingsroad. One or two may even be worth the price of piss. To make room for them, I have decided to pass seven of you on to the Lord Commander to do with as he will.” 

Lyarra couldn’t help but shake her head in dismay, Ser Alliser was far too cruel on the minds of the innocent. But there was nothing to be done about it. He was how he was. 

“Toad. Stone Head. Aurochs. Lover. Pimple. Monkey. Ser Loon.” 

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, clapping for the honour that would be bestowed on them. Eventually. They were to be men of the Wall. In the end, Lyarra didn’t think it was that grand. 

Pyp, the dear sweetheart, cheered with his sword far above his head. Delighted at the news, but Lyarra knew it was merely because Ser Alliser would no longer have his training in hand. 

Nobody liked Ser Alliser. 

“They will call you men of the Night’s Watch now, but you are bigger fools than the Mummer’s Monkey here if you believe that. You are still boys, green and stinking of summer, and when winter comes you will die like flies.”

Lyarra thought that was perhaps a little too harsh. She had faith in Pyp and Grenn, the same couldn’t be said for Samwell. His skills with a sword were abysmal at best.   
  


* * *

The presence of Samwell Tarly was a sad thing to be gained, his lips had been pushed into that of a bitter frown. Cursing his own lack of skill and pathetic attempts with a blade. It seemed even he believed that was so. And it wasn’t as if he’d be lying to himself, his attempts were feeble and not to be mentioned. Lyarra clasped the wine gently as she offered it to him, the red liquid swirled around in the skin. Neither had much of a taste for it, Lyarra was fond but not enough to drink glasses upon glass. 

“Would you like some, Sam?” 

The boy shook his head. “No. I’m alright.” 

“Are you really?”

“Very well, truly,” the boy fibbed. “I am so happy for them. Some say it’s an honour to serve here. At the Wall. They should be proud.”

Lyarra gulped down the skin of wine as she watched Sam flee, she knew it was from the roaring cheers of delight. She honestly didn’t know whether to be happy, or pitifully sad. Her friends, loyal ones that she had made at the Wall had been passed onto the Lord Commander. The same could not be said of Tarly, he was a kind boy but perhaps in the world of men where cruelty was a common occurrence, he had a soft heart. She didn’t think ill of him for it, in fact, she thought it was a good flaw to possess. 

If only he knew that. 

But she doubted he ever would, Lyarra knew the sight of insecurity well enough. As she too possessed that grappling fear that she would never be enough. 

Such thoughts continued on throughout the night, when the sun set beyond the white misty mountains, and all that she could see was the night sky and those bright starry lights that shone down upon them all. Even the rack of lamb wasn’t enough to cheer her spirits, nor would it be enough for Sam. His fear had consumed him, this much she had seen throughout the day. That, perhaps, he would be sent back to his father and meet the end he feared from the very blade of his own father’s sword. 

A horrible man to be sure. 

“Do you think they’ll keep us together?” Asked Pyp, gazing happily at his plate of lamb. 

Lyarra smiled sadly. “I won’t be training with you anymore. You’ll probably get to go beyond the Wall. Which is far more exciting than staying here. I wonder what’s out there…” 

“Wildlings,” said Pyp. “Rangers, don’t know if I’ll be one. You’d be good at that, Lya. It’s a shame they all think women are pretty little jewels.” 

Grenn blinked. “Women _are_ pretty.” 

“Yes. I meant Lya isn’t.”

“Thanks,” drawled Lyarra with a raised brow. Pyp flushed, stuttering about. 

“I-I meant your fierce!” He gasped, frightened that he had insulted one of his few friends. 

“I hope I’m a ranger,” mumbled Grenn. 

“You will be,” said the determined Snow. Most of the boys that she had befriended all wished for the same, to defend the great white wall against the tribes of Wildlings that threatened the lands of Westeros. A consistent need to explore the lands of ice and snow, to fight against the wild ones. To hunt the beasts that lived out in the icy taverns, the monsters that lived amongst the shadows. The giants, wolves, bears and spiders that were said to have been made entirely of ice. 

Then, there were, of course, the rumours of the Dragons. The beings of ice that breathed down on the frozen land. A place of such turmoil. 

“Not everyone will be Rangers, Lyarra.” Halder frowned sternly, daring her to say anything against him. But she didn’t. “It’s the builders for me. What use would rangers be if the Wall fell down?” 

Lyarra giggled at such thoughts as these. It was such a monstrous wall of ice that she couldn’t see any part of it collapsing. Shattering away into nothing at all. The very idea was positively absurd, and raised a few eyebrows. But even so, she felt the cold wind pass through her. As if she knew, that in some time, it would all come to nothing. Her eyes fluttered shut as Lyarra tried to get them out of her mind— death, decay and winter. The sight of ice on ice, the tumbling lifeless bodies as they charged forward. And the shadow man, the one she had seen as a child. The being that raised his sword, as she screamed. Blood pouring from her lips. She shook her head, pulling herself from such daunting thoughts. They weren’t real, they couldn’t be. Men of ice didn’t exist! 

“The Old Bear’s no fool,” Dareon murmured. “You’re certain to be a builder, and I don’t think he’ll ever be easy on you, Lyarra.” 

The group of friends chuckled, amused at the sight of the girl’s consistent pouting. They all knew it to be true, the Old Bear was determined to turn Lyarra Snow into the most fierce warrior that could ever be seen. 

“You’re a daughter of House Stark,” he had once said. Towering over the shivering young girl. “There is no time for you to be picking up the daisies. You’re a Wolf of Winterfell. I, nor your father, will have you dishonouring your family name. Carry the spirit with heart, dear child.” 

“You would’ve been a good Ranger, Lya. A good sword hand and you can ride like nobody else I’ve ever seen. They say you’re like your Aunt Lyanna,” said Dareon. “That she could ride like the wind. Your uncle could too, best First Ranger we’ve had in a long time. It’s a shame…” 

“Benjen Stark is still First Ranger,” insisted Lyarra furiously. Chewing on her berries fiercely, glaring at anyone that dared to say that wasn’t so. Her Uncle Benjen was in perfectly fine health, thank-you-very-much! And she wouldn’t listen to a single word that said otherwise. She sighed, pushing away the bowl of fruit. The very thought of her uncle’s lifeless body laid out in the snow was too nauseous for her to think upon. 

“Aren’t you going to eat those?” 

“You can have them,” scowled Lyarra. “I can’t. I’ll eat when Benjen comes back. You’ll all see!” 

The young Snow left in a huff, her grey fur-cloak following her as she sought the chilly breeze that remained beyond the stone walls and wooden door. It was far better than to remain amongst those that insisted her loved one had passed, alone and miserable in a land that was so very far away from Winterfell. Where Benjen belonged. As all Starks did before him. 

Theon followed her with slumped shoulders, an apple in his mouth and a handful of pork. He glanced at Lyarra with a frown, or as much as could be seen while he ate away. 

“Are…” he hesitated, swallowing the mouthful of chewed green apple. “Are you well?” 

“Yes,” breathed Lyarra, shaking her head. “Did you see Sam? Was he at the table?” 

Theon shook his head, a cruel smirk lifting his lips that was oddly familiar in a fond manner. 

“It is unlike him to miss a meal. Do you think porky is unwell?” 

“I don’t know.”

And she didn’t know. But, in her heart, she felt that she truly did. Samwell Tarly wasn’t like the other boys at the Wall. He didn’t hold a need to prove that he was a brave warrior, in fact, unlike most men he didn’t particularly want to be a warrior. He hardly held the mind for it, or the body. His training hadn’t been well acknowledged, and for many reasons that were more than likely discussed behind closed doors. For all that Lyarra was fond of Ser Alliser, she knew that the man held no heart towards those that had little gift with the sword. And Sam was many things, intelligent as well, but a good swordsman he was not. Neither was Lyarra (she wasn’t a man either), but she was becoming better. A gift she would have to thank her father, for how could she have become this without his knowledge to send her away to train? 

Even though it had been Lyarra that had been desperate to learn how to master the blade. 

Theon nibbled at the pork. 

“You like him, this Tarly craven?” 

Lyarra glared. “He’s not a craven!” 

“Whatever you say.” But Theon didn’t sound convinced upon the matter, at all. 

It was true that Samwell was afraid, and that was fine. Who was she to deny the intelligence of a man, he clearly couldn’t be a fine warrior and have the common sense of an intelligent heir. But he could be something else, his life surely didn’t have to be dedicated to becoming something that he was not. This only brought a scowl to her lips, Lyarra would never try to be a perfect pretty lady. Sansa could adore all her dresses as much as she liked to, but Lyarra held little patience for such things. A sword in her hand was all that she truly desired, and a need to travel and see the world. Perhaps even the ancient ruins of Valyria? 

She could leave Westeros and never look back. But Samwell didn’t have such an option as that, he was forced to spend the rest of his life tied to Westeros and the name, Tarly. Lyarra didn’t believe she was lucky to be a bastard, but sometimes on the odd occasion it held more worth than being Trueborn. She could slip away from the treacherous land that was Westeros and find a place of her own, to travel and see a thousand wonders. But Samwell could never leave, perhaps not even the Wall. His father’s blade or arrow was waiting for him, a cruelty that the boy could never look back on with a smile. 

Sam was haunted by the man that should only have ever been kind. 

“He deserves more,” murmured Lyarra. And she believed he did. There was nothing wrong with Samwell, he was kind and sweet. Maester Aemon was no seasoned warrior, of that Lyarra was sure. He was old, frail, but so very kind. There was a likeness between the two men that made her wonder. For a future that Sam could have, it wasn’t any of her business. Why should it be when she had only known the boy for a few mere weeks? What did it matter to her of what Samwell would become? But she found, with a frown, that she wanted him to be happy. 

But Lyarra had always possessed a gentle heart, of the likes that was often too kind for her own good. Or so Sansa had always claimed. It was Lyarra that greeted the townsfolk and gave them all the orange-cakes on her name day, stating she couldn’t be the only one celebrating. For while there was a feast for Robb or Sansa, it was Lyarra who spent her own mostly alone. The cook often gave her a basket of cakes to nibble on throughout the day, which she shared with those that were far from fortunate in the ways of life in Winter Town. Her father, Lord Eddard, had been proud of such actions. Claiming her heart was from her mother, sweet and gentle, but fierce and brave. And yet, Lyarra could see the heartbreak from such thoughts.

And it ached. 

The moon lingered on her pale porcelain cheeks as she stared out on the wooden balcony, eyeing Castle Black and the silent pillars that reached up against the icy wall. It wasn’t the biggest castle she had seen, but it wasn’t a small place where one lone man lived by any means. 

It was made for more than that. Theon headed back into the warmth of the Hall as she simply stared. Eyes open and wide at the beaming stars that shone from above. 

The sky wasn’t all that much different from Winterfell, and even now, in her heart she craved to return home. To adventure into the cold and grey walls of her rooms, the warmth of her bed and the fire that rested near her table and chairs. It was a small room, larger than bastard children were usually afforded. But in the minds of many, she was the winter-rose of House Stark. 

Lyarra wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, shivering as the icy wind swept across her glove covered hands. Her nose and cheeks flushed pink, but it couldn’t quite be helped against the bitter wind. She turned up her hood, specs of snow landing in her long dark locks as she set off towards Maester Aemon’s tower. The tower, she found, was close to where Lyarra stayed and wasn’t all that much of a distance to walk too. It was high up above the green trees and fresh snow, she peeked through one of the holes as she glanced down at the training yard that looked almost to be a crumb. Tiny and so very small from where she currently stood. 

Lyarra knocked on the door gently, very much aware that some of the men were asleep. But at such a time as this, it was to be expected. 

“I must speak to Maester Aemon.” 

Chett scowled. “The Maester is abed, as you should be. Come back, and he might see you.”

The wooden door began to close much to her dismay, her pale gloved hand jammed the door as her purple gaze stared into his own eyes harshly. Narrowing them in irritation. 

“I need to see him now. The morning will be too late, I’m very sure of that. Please.” 

He huffed. “The Maester is not accustomed to being woken in the night. Are you even aware how old he is?” 

Lyarra rolled her eyes in exasperation. “He’s old enough to treat visitors with more kindness than you. I would apologise but you're not Maester Aemon, are you?” She snarked. “I would not disturb his rest if it were not important.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

Lyarra smirked. “Or, ” she drawled. “I could answer with my fist.”

He sneered in disdain, staring at the girl whom he found distasteful. It was a shame they couldn't touch the women that visited for training. Whether it was his own fist or the steel sword which was strapped to his side. He could, of this he was very sure, forcibly remove that little smirk of hers. Perhaps the lips she possessed too. Why would she have any need for those? Chett despised Lyarra Snow. He grunted, opening the door with what he believed were perfect manners. 

This, however, was very far from the truth. 

“Wait in the library. There’s wood. Start a fire. You can do that, can't you? Or is that too much…” his slimy grin was nothing but cruel. “I won't have the Maester catching a chill because of your imbecilic habits.” 

Lyarra pursed her lips. But did as was asked, which wasn't all that hard. She had spent years working amongst the men and women that ran the keep that was Winterfell. Lighting a fire was hardly anything that could be done with difficulty. She had, back in her rooms in Winterfell, lit her own fire. As she had no other choice. The Maester much to her surprise was quite awake, she wouldn't have been all that shocked if he was awake the whole time. Chett had never liked her. As it had been made quite clear from when she first had arrived at the Castle Black. 

She smiled softly, bowing her head in respect at the older man. Removing her grey hood, brushing the snow from her dark curls.

“I am sorry to have woken you, Maester. I wouldn't have done so if it weren't important. Truly.” 

“You did not wake me, ” chuckled Aemon. “I find I need less sleep as I grow older, and I have grown very old. I often spend half the night with ghosts, remembering times fifty years past as if they were yesterday. The mystery of a midnight visitor is a welcome person. So tell me, Lyarra Snow, why have you come calling at this strange hour?” He asked, with a slight turn of his lips. 

“My friend, Samwell. His training won't amount to much, but I believe he still can be a brother of the Night’s Watch.” 

“This is of no concern to Maester Aemon!” Hissed Chett. 

“Our Lord Commander has given the training recruits into the hands of Ser Alliser Thorne. Only he may say when a boy is ready to swear his vow, as you surely know. Why then come to me?” 

“Lord Commander Mormont listens to you, ” frowned Lyarra. “And the wounded and the sick of the Night’s Watch are in your charge.” 

“And is your friend Samwell wounded or sick? There is nothing I can do about this all. Especially if you think his training won't amount too much…” 

“He will be hurt,” Lyarra swore. “He needs your help, there is little I can do for him.”

“Why is it your duty to help him?” Scoffed Chett, glaring at the young woman who merely smiled. 

Sweetly and with all the serenity that was a mask. Clever, or so Lyarra thought. 

“Because Sam’s my friend, Chett.” 

“Without help, Sam will have no chance.” She admitted, looking down to pale and shuddering palms. “There’s no hope for him with a sword, or anything. My sister, Arya, could tear him apart, and she’s not yet ten. If Ser Alliser makes him fight, which he will, it’s only a matter of time before he’s hurt or killed!” 

Chett sneered. “I’ve seen your filthy pig boy you like to call a friend, little Snow. He is a hopeless craven as well, if what you say is true.” 

Lyarra opened her mouth, furious and certainly ready enough to reach for her blade. Pale fingers twitched, but she knew it wouldn’t get her anywhere. How could it? 

“Maybe it is so.” Said Aemon. 

Drawing the pair of eyes back to him, the odd man hummed. Thinking upon the matter with narrowed eyes, Samwell Tarly was much discussed amongst the men of the Night’s Watch. And it was never certainly in a kind manner, he knew this as did everyone else. 

“Tell me, Chett. What would you have us do with such a boy as this Samwell Tarly?” 

“Leave him where he is,” Chett grumbled scornfully. “The Wall is no place for the weak. Let him train until he is ready, no matter how many years that takes. Ser Alliser shall make a man of him or kill him, as the gods will.” 

“That’s stupid!” Screeched Lyarra, letting her temper get the better of her. The Northerner clenched her fists, nails digging into her pale flesh. Bruising at the touch. “I-I,” she paused desperately in thought. “I used to ask Maester Luwin why he wore those horrible chains around his neck. And do you know what he said, Chett!” 

The man scowled, crossing his arms. Hardly impressed with the words that had slipped forth from Lyarra’s lips. 

“Go on,” said Aemon with a smile. 

“He told me that a Maester’s collar is made of chain to remind him that he is sworn to serve. I might’ve been young, and I still am, Chett. But I’m hardly stupid. I understand why they’re worn. I understand that a Maester forges their chain with study, and it’s important. Not just to me, but the people he serves. Gold for the study of money and accounts, silver for healing, iron for warcraft. It’s supposed to remind him of the realm he serves. Us and the people. Lords are gold and knights are steel, but two links can’t make a chain. You need silver, iron and lead. Tin, copper and bronze. Farmers, Smiths, and Merchants. A land needs different people, and I believe— _no_ , I know that the Night’s Watch is no different from the rest of Westeros.” 

Maester Aemon grinned. “And so?”

“Why do you have Rangers, Stewards and Builders? Nobody can make me a Trueborn, Maester. Nor can you turn Sam into a warrior. And as much as I like Ser Alliser, he won’t succeed either. None of them will. He’s not meant to be a warrior, Sam, h-he’s different. Just like nobody’s the same. Why shouldn’t Sam be a steward?” Asked Lyarra, her lips pulled harshly into a scowl, while her eyes did nothing but beg. 

Desperate for Samwell’s life. 

Chett merely sneered, hatred had never been any more prominent in those cold eyes of his.

“I’m a steward,” he spat. “You think it’s easy work, fit for cowards? The order of stewards keeps the Watch alive. We hunt and farm, tend the horses, milk the cows, gather firewood, cook the meals. Who do you think makes the clothing? Who brings up supplies from the South? The Stewards!” 

Maester Aemon frowned. “Is your friend a hunter?” But those eyes, Lyarra couldn’t help but think, for a blind man they were ever so kind. 

“He hates hunting,” sighed Lyarra. 

“Can he plow a field? Can he drive a wagon or sail a ship? Could he butcher a cow?” 

Lyarra’s hope quickly dwindled at that. 

“No,” she muttered. 

Chett snorted. “I’ve seen that fat friend of yours, his hands would blister and bleed at the sight of any work. I suspect you're much the same. Raised with privileges and nobility, you wouldn’t know how to plow a field! And neither would Tarly. You’re both as pathetic as one another.” 

Maester Aemon frowned. 

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone. And certainly better than you!”

“Yes?” Asked Aemon. 

“He could help you, or anyone really. Sam can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He would be good with the ravens, he’s fond of animals. And they tend to like him too. There’s a lot he could do, and that doesn’t necessarily mean he has to pick up a sword. Nobody's worth should be defined by that! The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of Sam instead. Please, Maester.” 

“You have much intelligence, Lady Lyarra. And it serves you well. A quick mind, as deft as your blade. There aren’t many women that possess such talents as those.”

Lyarra’s eyes lit up with such hope. How could they not? She was rather fond of Sam. 

“Does that mean…” 

Maester Aemon stared at Lyarra sternly, she couldn’t help but wonder how he knew where she was. His hearing must be rather good, all things considered. 

  
“It means I shall think on what you have said. And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show Lady Lyarra to the door. If you please?”


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late chapter but it took me ages to write, I probably won’t be as frequent. Because the Semester has started, and I’ll be really busy. But I’ll try as much as I can. Anyways, hope you like this chapter and thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos ☺️ 💕

**DAERON** glanced down at the paper, yellow and as old as could be. The other students looked his way through narrowed eyes. Considering the new apprentice that sat among them all, looking as they all ought too. Valyrian, and of a house that held such importance. It was the  _ Guardian  _ who had admitted the boy into their study of the Ancient Arts. A form of magic that they felt wasn’t right for outsiders; including that strange girl that had accompanied the Targaryen Prince. 

His hands trembled, shaking as he picked up the paper. Lightly caressing the crinkles that rested at the side, where it had once been rolled. The crimson ribbon was left at the side, but none of this hid his fear. His pale skin remained touching the paper, as if it was his only sense of keeping his mind distracted. He was going to do it, he had too. The choice of learning magic at the altar of the Guardian was unlike anything else. 

The warming rush filled his veins, flushing through his bones.  _ Aching.  _ Steam vibrated from his tightened fists, the other students snickered as they did far better than him. Summoning fire as if it were nothing into their palms, luminous but deadly all the same. Daeron huffed, clenching his fists all the tighter. He had to come back to his temple with something, otherwise he knew Gerion would only frown. Claiming that he had clearly been right in the end. 

The group of sailors and lords that had followed Gerion across the seas from Westeros had only frowned at the prospect of learning magic. But the crew had become fond of Alysanne, Missandei and Daeron. And hadn’t spoken much on the matter, even though Alys had taken to the oddest routine of climbing up and down the cliffs to mentally prepare herself for lessons on magic. Not that such a thing as this would help. But Alysanne was sure that it would do  _ something _ . 

He watched diligently as Alysanne seemed to be struggling all the more, the wild wind whipping around her pale flesh. Daeron blinked, he could see the anger in her eyes. Furious and positively wrathful. Alysanne, in her fierce nature wished to smother the others with pillows until they begged to be released, hands shuddering and shaking to be let free. Desperate perhaps. But violence wasn’t to be granted or accepted in the Halls of Knowledge. 

Daeron twisted his hands, eyes lighting up in utter delight as a flame flickered from them. As bright as the hearth that rested in his room in the temple that his crew had taken over. There hadn’t been much left to it, but at the very least, there was  _ that.  _ But the fire wouldn’t remain, it flickered briefly before it was snuffed by the winds that swept near Alys. Who, much to his relief, seemed to be forming nothing either. Daeron unclenched his fists, happy with even the slightest sense of warmth that lingered in them. 

Then,  _ finally,  _ he thought briefly. He could find her, his niece that was left alone on the other side of the world. Magic was the only way he could see her, much to the dismay of his friends. 

“No!” Screeched Anya. “ _ No!”  _ The ground seemed to shake from her mere voice alone. She pointed at Alysanne who merely glanced at the Guardian through wide eyes. Fearful even. 

Alysanne flinched as the woman grasped her face uncomfortably with her long claw-like nails. She wished to shake and shudder, but found in great horror that she could not. 

“Child,” breathed the woman. “You do not hold the fire. These lessons are pointless for you,” the students seemed to find great amusement out of that. For of course she didn’t possess it.

_ Alysanne was an outsider.  _

“But you carry the wind,  _ Aer,  _ rides in your soul. Focus not on the fire, but everything around you. The wind, child. And then, you shall succeed.”

The students whispered amongst themselves, and Daeron understood. Magic was within the soul of many that much had been told to him by even Viserys. But it was those that could use it which were rare, the Valyrians had been that odd few. He sniffed, twitching as the crystal incense swirled around the room. Wind howling from the young girl, and she grinned. Vicious in the sight of those that could never summon such a thing, and Daeron knew jealousy. 

He sighed, watching the flames dance in his hands. It was all useless, when in truth what could a few flames do? Daeron supposed he could burn his victims but he hardly wanted to be another coming of his father. But, in truth, he wanted to meet her. The strange girl that was born from his brother and Lyanna Stark. He hardly had any family left, the Baratheons and Lannisters had well and truly seen to that.

Those cold orange eyes peered into his own, and for one mere moment it was as if Daeron had bared his own soul to the old woman. He often wondered if she could see such things, the Guardian saw everything, after all. It was what made her knowledge so sought after. 

Those eyes merely stared, until her tongue began to speak. Words that brought ice into the heart of a boy that knew nothing but the flames. 

“We learn this because of the great ice, I must ask you, little ones.  _ How _ are we to defend our kin when the shadows walk beyond the great barrier once more? The King has selected you all, from families old and new.”

“The White Walkers?” Asked Alysanne, for she knew as well as he did of what Anya spoke off. 

“They have many names,” said Anya. Tilting her head gently at the young Westerosi. “Shadows, the Ice Men, the  _ White Walkers.  _ I believe they’ve been called the Others as well, the King has seen them in the paintings and burning glass. There’s no running from them, nor can we fly as our wings were burnt away by the Doom a very long time ago. But we have our hands, and that is why our King has selected you. The best of the best, Old Valyria would’ve been proud,” she sighed in exasperation. Glancing at Alysanne with a wry smirk. “Even outsiders that bear the Aer. You have a gift child, so  _ use it. _ ” 

“And they shall ride the ice and snow, bringing nothing but bitter desolate death,” echoed a student who tugged at her pale white braids. The beads in her hair glistened under the sunlight that shone in from above. It was the first time Alysanne had seen it in such a place as this. 

Anya nodded. “And it is only the song of ice and fire that can save us all. We must be her sword.” 

Daeron glanced at her in shock. His breath stilled in his chest. For surely they couldn’t mean Visenya? “You speak of my niece,” he whispered under his breath. But he  _ knew  _ that Anya had heard every word that slipped from his tongue. 

“She’s meant to save us all from the…  _ Others _ ?”

Anya had heard Daeron’s question, as had the others. But she perceived such a thing as that to hold little importance, and the Guardian refused to look his way for the rest of the day. Until the stars shone gently in the dark night sky, it was beautiful but that was nothing new. He had found a great fondness for the lost lands of Valyria, the cities were magnificent. Along with the treacherous crumbling towers and whistling wind, even if it was more likely to sprinkle ashes in the eyes of those that walked the land. Gerion had complained enough as it was, but there was no way for them to leave the doomed land. And even if they could, Daeron wasn’t sure he  _ would.  _ Here amongst the towering spires and strange people, he was safe from the likes of his brother and Robert Baratheon. For the first time in his short-lived life, he was  _ safe.  _

The hidden city, or as the people liked to call it;  _ Zaldrīzes lentor.  _ There wasn’t a place that he loved more in the whole world, his heart held even the most love for those that he barely knew. To the Guardian Anya, that had stood over his family's legacy for hundreds of years. The only other he knew was Laena, who sold the best fish that he found his hands on. Smoked and soft, fresh from the boiling water that swept across the sand. They were the oddest of colours, purple and crimson. Glowing under the light of the sun, skin bubbling without the presence of the ocean. 

“You’re gifted,” said the blue-haired girl that sat next to him. Fire flickering from one palm to another, she stared at it as if it were nothing. “The fire. You summoned it quickly for someone that’s never done it before.”

These were the kindest words that he had been given by the other students. Her smile was rather pleasant too, the hair that she had dyed (with the brightest of paint) was collected with bones that were carved as pins. A curious thing. 

“I’m hardly gifted,” murmured Daeron. “I'm just like the rest of you.” This was said with narrowed eyes, as if he was  _ daring  _ her to deny that such a thing as this was true. 

The blue-haired girl frowned. As if she couldn’t quite believe that, and Daeron felt—  _ no,  _ he knew that they all seemed to be of the same thought. The students didn’t like him, but they never had too. He wasn’t here to make friends, he never had been. All that Daeron Targaryen had ever known was the bitter truth of harsh survival. 

Alysanne grasped at her cloak tightly, smiling at Daeron as the Guardian hobbled off to another corner of the Temple. Hiding amongst the shadows as she liked to do, he didn’t know whether he was grateful that the lesson had dispersed. The probability of the ice-demons lingering over their heads like that of a sword was too horrific to even contemplate. He shivered, fingers reaching for the blade that rested at his hip. The only security that he and Alysanne truly possessed. 

The walk back through the clouded city was bright and hellishly loud, the markets were bustling with customers. Proud Merchants, and the odd fisher that had come from the docks that were gathered amongst the  _ boiling beach. _ A place where nobody swam, not unless they were Unburnt for their skin would boil and melt from their bones. Muscles wasting away to nothing at all. Food for the fish. Daeron glanced around, coughing as he waved his pale hand at the smoke that seemed to have consumed them. It produced the liveliest of scents, as much as he would like to deny it, the very smell of it made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. Cinnamon, Bajiik Leaves, and Garmen Roots were roasted from one silver pan to the other. Oil and a thousand other grounded pastes being thrown into the swirling pots. Chicken and fish chucked in the stew for good measure, and where there wasn’t that, there was bread. Whether it was sourdough or freshly baked apple and berry bread pudding. 

Smoke and steam faded away as they moved towards the mountains and the steep rocky steps that Gerion had barely started to improve. The crew couldn’t stand the thought of  _ anyone  _ adventuring such a climb, so the improvements had begun. And there would be no complaints from Alysanne  _ or  _ Daeron. He clutched tightly at the fresh bread he held in his palms, bringing it to his lips along with the leather pouch of water. It was the only food he would find on the way up their climb, and he had always seemed to favour the seeded bread that was made amongst the markets. Collected from the purple stall that was owned by old Mrs Kretch. With frail limbs and a kind smile, but nobody made bread quite like hers. How could they? 

He ate the last piece, taking another long gulp of the water before he strapped it to his side next to the silver glinting sword that he often wielded. Pale hands clutched at the rocks as he heaved himself over them, looking up at the newly made steps that were sighted in the distance. Newton and his friends had done all they could, of that he was sure. His nails cracked as his left foot slipped, yelping as Alysanne helped him back up. Flushing in embarrassment, but Daeron had never made any qualms to perfection. Nobody could claim such a thing, a man held flaws as much as any other. Whether it was in the heart or the mind. Daeron carried his own. But he would never admit to them (even if one of them was climbing down, and sometimes  _ up)  _ as his stubbornness was far too prideful. 

His thoughts screeched to a halt as his legs were pushed up off from the ground. Daeron floated, his arms wailing about as he glanced down at Alysanne who seemed to find such amusement from it all. The Targaryen glared fiercely at her, the girl put him down gently but with the smuggest smirk ever to be seen. He  _ hated  _ it, the fact that it was she that understood her own magic all the more better than him. 

The temple stood before them once more much to the relief of Daeron, he was more than happy to be home. To sit with Missandei, knees pressed against one another as they read the most obscure texts next to the roaring fire. Or perhaps it was the taste of the Cyprus Cakes that Tyson made with his mother, Rhaena. They were the perfect spice of cinnamon and lemons, moist and tasteful. His pink tongue swept across his lips at the mere thought. Like lately, the towering purple and white towers looming over them was a welcome sight. Even the bells that would never ring, pale and scattered with ash. Burnt beyond repair, Daeron could imagine the chaos and desolate destruction that had slaughtered Valyria. The horror that had made them ring. 

“You’re back!” Beamed Missandei, as she greeted them with a wide grin. Her pale skirts fluttering along the grassy green hill, daisies and ash moulding with the white cotton. It seemed that despite the ash and bone, the green grass and wild vines grew with such beauty. 

Daeron pulled her into his arms, there wasn’t any hint of attraction between either of them. There never had been. Missandei could talk on and  _ on  _ about the food in which Rhaena had prepared, and all that he cared for was the comfort of his dear friend. He had never received much of that as a child, his elder brother had always possessed a bitter heart. Cruel and callous in the eyes of men, but perhaps when Daeron had been but a babe, there had once been a sense of kindness in Viserys’ heart. 

The lounging arena as Tyson had taken to calling it was filled with laughter and merriment, much the same. Even that of the raising of ale in the men’s long wooden mugs. Their eyes were dancing with joy, but this, Daeron had discovered many weeks ago, was nothing new. The men of Westeros enjoyed their feasts, and they had them whenever their Gods favoured them with new food and drinks (which came from the mysterious spring that liked to disappear entirely), and then there was the ale in which Daeron himself often brought from the city below the mountains. It was clearly admired and enjoyed. Such a thing was to be admitted. 

The room was truly a hall, like those that Daeron had often imagined as a child. Of the kind that were kept in the Red Keep, in the land of his home. But alas it was true, there was nothing but space and towering glittering walls that covered his home. The temple that he had come to adore. How could he not? 

It was the only true place where he seemed to have pleasant company, consistent meals  _ and  _ his own rooms. Along with that of a bathing facility, there was no other place in the world that seemed to possess such delightful qualities. Or there never had been for him, in his less than stellar past. Of the likes that brought him no delight or  _ any  _ sense of happiness. Gerion seemed happy to see him, Daeron couldn’t help but note. But it was the exiled lord that had been the kindest of them all, so he wasn’t all that surprised. But it was welcomed nonetheless. 

Daeron tilted his head respectfully at his friend and mentor in the art of swordsmanship.

“I see we seem to be celebrating…” 

“They’ve heard news from the Valyrians.” The Lord sat down with a soft smile on his lips. The lounging silk pair of chairs looked all the more better against the glittering diamond walls. 

“Oh?” Asked Daeron. “Have they agreed to supply the boats?” 

“The King wants us all gone,” he claimed. “He didn’t command us to leave. Something about Gods and the  _ Eternal Flame? _ ” 

“He doesn’t want us here?” But in truth it didn’t surprise Daeron all that much. He had quickly noticed the three-headed dragon that had been carved into the city from one building to another, Daeron was a threat to this strange King. The Prince held many suspicions of  _ what  _ the city had once been. The Vascaar Trading City had once been ruled by the Targaryens, he had much belief that this was what it had once been. 

“He’s giving us a ship in hopes that we will leave,” Lord Lannister said, “but I have all the means to take my crew and travel with  _ this  _ as our base. It would be a nice home and there’s plenty of room for all of us to live here.”’

“Are we going anywhere?” He asked. “I heard there was a new good trading post in Lys. Are you going to sell some of the treasure here?” Daeron couldn’t help but be horrified at the mere thought, this was his  _ home.  _ Or as much of a home as he had ever possessed. And to consider selling something that he viewed as his wasn’t to be even considered. Nor would it ever be. He was hardly Viserys in any matters. 

“No,” smiled Gerion. “It would be wrong of me to sell them. If anything, they belong to you. This whole temple does, it wouldn’t have your sigil on it if that were not the case.” 

“I don’t own them,” he said. “The Targaryens left this land a  _ very  _ long time ago. Whatever claim we once had has long since passed. Even the Valyrians view me as an outsider.” 

“But you do not believe that. I can see it in your eyes, Daeron. This  _ is  _ your home, and those are your heirlooms.” Gerion said as if it were a matter of fact. And perhaps in his mind it was. “All of this is yours, by that right so is the city. But I’m sure King Malarys would disagree. I think you’d find most kings would.” 

Daeron would deny that such thoughts  _ had  _ been considered by his own mind. Surely it was his if his own family’s sigil was carved into the pale white towers of what had once been Vascaar. His ancestors had been sorcerers and the most deadly, assassins and possible enemies to the Emperors of the Valyrian Freehold. They had all the abilities and power to save their city from definite desolation. 

“Some of the men wish to travel, it’s what we left for. To find new lands and explore. And, I think, after finding Valyria the rest of us want to find more. You’re very welcome to come with us, Daeron. We’ll be returning of course, most of us have become too comfortable with the beds…”

Gerion laughed, but it couldn’t be quite helped he was a rather jovial man. 

Daeron smiled, excitement bubbling in his chest. To  _ see  _ new land and explore was well within his heart and Alysanne’s. “I will come, where are you planning on going next?” 

“East, I suppose,” murmured Gerion. 

“That’s dangerous,” he said. “Essos is full of Slavers. That’s how my brother sold me, you don’t think we’ll face Viserys?” Daeron truly seemed afraid at the prospect, his body trembling. He knew not if it was the thirst for revenge, or the feeble fear of an abused little boy that knew nothing but the cruel fists of his elder brother. Something he despised to feel. 

“Hm,” hummed Gerion. “And you won’t be alone, Daeron. He’ll find great trouble in enslaving us all. For what you’ve told me of this Viserys… he seems much like Aerys. And your father was many things, but intelligent wasn’t one of them. If we do meet, it will be at the end of our steel.” 

Daeron glanced at his clenched fists as the steam arose from his twitching pale fingers. Flames that flickered slightly under the slight breeze that roared from the fire, of the likes that he was sure Alysanne had formed. Her power was as great as any others. 

Gerion’s breath stilled. “By the  _ seven,”  _ he murmured in utter disbelief. “You— that was  _ magic!”  _ And Daeron couldn’t blame him for the previous persistent disbelief that magic was no more. But the very truth of it had shattered his world and sense of what was right. 

“Yes,” he said. “Even if I face my brother, he will burn much like my father should have. Viserys never held much sanity.” 

“They say when a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin, whether they shall be mad or kind is a mere question. Madness has more than likely been destined with your brother.” 

“He wasn’t always like that,” smiled Daeron. “He used to be kind. It quickly faded in time, although he failed me I like to  _ think  _ there is a world out there where he did not…” 

Daeron  _ did  _ remember days of kindness, when his own brother had spent all the little coins he had earned to buy his sick feverish brother medicine and healing. Viserys had spent  _ weeks  _ by Daeron’s side, praying to all that was above. Surely they wouldn’t take this from him too? 

It was a mere seven weeks after that when they were forced to sell their mother’s crown that he began to know the true cruelty that rested in his elder brother’s heart. It wasn’t to be dismissed, nor were the twisted scars that ran down his back. Brutal and vicious. And it was only Daeron that would remember Viserys in a kind light, for by the time he knew Alysanne there was nothing left of the kind brother. He was a mere shadow amongst men. 

His heart ached at the kind sweet smile that his brother had once worn. “He’s out there somewhere, alone in the world. And really? That makes it all the more worse. He doesn’t have anyone, Viserys never has.”’

“Perhaps that is for the best, Prince Daeron. Men such as your brother ought to be alone, for the sins they have committed. And from the scars you bare, marked by your own  _ blood,  _ he has the right to it. To be alone. And I hope, with all sincerity, that he remains that way…”

Daeron’s fingers paused, his breath stilled. Pale hands ceased their twitching against his leather pants. And he knew that loneliness was something brutal. You could, after all, have all the company in the world. And  _ yet,  _ still ache with bitter loneliness that consumed the very heart. Daeron didn’t know whether to love or despise his brother, but more often than not the former chains of slavery flamed his wrath. 

_ For how could he?!  _

Gerion frowned, his fingers pressed against pursed lips as he considered the subject that was Viserys Targaryen. “Do you believe he could gather an army to take back Westeros?”

Daeron shook his head, the very thought of Viserys and bleary purple eyes was enough for him to disbelieve such a thing, there had never been much sanity in her brother. And the little he had left after the age of seven had been chipped away brutally by the greedy and abusive hands of those that had hunted them. In time, much like them, he had become one. Bruises and welts had marred Daeron’s skin and all because his elder brother was  _ bored.  _

“No. Not unless someone wishes to  _ use  _ him to take over Westeros, but I cannot see why that would occur. House Targaryen has too many enemies that wish to kill us, not save our seat that was taken from us…”’

And Gerion knew he was right. There were, and had been whispers of the Blackfyre family over the years. Murmurs from those that had once been loyal, wrathful in the face of those that bore the three-headed-dragon. 

They spoke off Viserys too, the ‘ _ king with no crown’,  _ as he was most known. The eldest Targaryen was thought of with disdain, how surely was he to be considered when he scampered from one filthy street to another? Hands clasped together and begging. The boy was no king. Certainly not as great as his brother Prince Rhaegar had once been. Gerion had heard the tales before he was lost amongst the towering spires of ash and smoke. The lost prince had found his attention focused on that of cups and  _ cups  _ of wine, and the pleasures of flesh that more often than not came with it. 

“Very true,” Gerion murmured. “But one could argue that Westeros no longer belongs to the Targaryens. Your family gained it through a conqueror, and Robert Baratheon won it by doing so. You would not be welcomed back.”

And Daeron knew that, his brother had whispered and murmured into the night. Boasting that the people of Westeros were waiting for their  _ true king.  _ And he had doubted that, how could he not when he had heard all the tales from the maids and servants around Essos surrounding their father. And the liberation that had came from the hands of the Stag King. 

He sighed, clasping his hands together tightly. 

The cotton that he wore wrapped around his pale shaking fingers. “I know,” whispered Daeron. “I more than know how much my family is despised. There were parades in Kings Landing when my father was destroyed, people even remembered it greatly. The food, service and pleasures years later. I know my blood shall never be welcome on those shores again. And I hope, greatly so, that Visenya is well.” 

Gerion couldn’t help but glance at the Prince Daeron sceptically, he knew nothing of this supposed Princess. But the boy clearly believed it all to be true,  _ he  _ could not say the same for himself. Gerion had never truly been that fanciful. 

The exiled lord peered down at the boy’s hands, pale and shuddering that steamed in the grip of his cotton shirt. 

“You might want to watch that, Daeron. I doubt you wish to burn your clothes.” 

Such a thing was said in disbelief, but the magic had become all the more clear and versatile in the eyes of the Westerosi Lord. 

“Oh…” Daeron stated. “Yes. I shall.” His fists were clenched when he removed them from the pale cotton, it’s pale material was scorched black. The desolate burn marks from what had once been fire, he glanced at them through narrowed eyes. Even now, at the thought of his brother, his rage would not temper. 

“You might wish to learn how to control that,” breathed Gerion. Frightened for the first time at the very  _ sight  _ of a Targaryen. 

Daeron laughed hollowly. “I don’t know. I’ve never known. My brother certainly didn’t teach me control, all Viserys knew how to garner was fear. I know nothing of control…” 

The fire licked at his pale flesh, blazing up his arms until it reached his shoulders. Fire blowing below his chin, that glinted blaze in purple eyes was a frightening prospect for any man that knew nothing of the arcane arts of magic. Gerion would never admit to being afraid, but as the wrathful storm of fire moved from little flickering lights to a full-body glow, Gerion didn’t know what to think. If such news was received by his niece’s husband, Robert’s fury would never be contained. Not by any wave, or mountain that stood in his way. The Stag King would clutch his war hammer and  _ scream.  _ A cry of battle that the Baratheon would be determined to fight. 

Hysterical sobs slipped past Daeron’s lips, as the scars littered on his flesh made him feel all the more filthy. Tainted in the eyes of those that he couldn’t help but adore, and the fire merely grew. And Gerion knew that in truth, the boy was only that. A boy. And he was afraid, terrified of the harm that Viserys could cause. Even now, when he was miles away. On another land. 

Daeron fell to his knees, accepting the comforting warmth which came from the roaring fire which he kneeled before. He cared little for the dust that was scattered across his leather pants, he unclenched his fists. Allowing the fire to fade away into nothing at all. 

But he was used to the dirt, his favourite spot as a child had been under the yellow lemon tree. Daeron had been carried in when the sun began to set by his elder brother,  _ the kind one,  _ Viserys would laugh as he pushed his little brother in the tub full of bubbles. Diligently washing the boy down, removing the dirty stains from his hands and knees. 

Viserys would grin, rubbing soap into his white pale Valyrian curls as Daeron began to watch the summer sun glow against the highest of mountains and grassy green trees that towered over their home. It wasn’t too long after that when they had been forced from the yellow walls with the red door and beautiful little lemon tree. 

“We’ll be fine,” his elder brother had once whispered as they slept amongst the slave quarters in Qarth. The men had pitied them, allowing their partners to keep them tucked in their warm blankets. Daeron remembered that well enough, the hushed voices of how they were forbidden to love. A slave was another man’s property, and one could not wed another as she or he was already a possession. Nothing more. But Daeron, at the mere age of four, couldn’t understand those words. Not truly. 

But he would. When his brother had been forced to sell their mother’s jewels, one by one. Daeron had witnessed the descent of his elder brother, the only father he had ever known. Those purple eyes he had once admired became clouded, and not all there. When the crown had been sold all that was left of Viserys had faded away, his fingers became claws, and his eyes were so very cold. And sometimes, they were feverish. As if he had an illness that could never be cured. And Daeron had forgiven him for every hit and curse, until the silver chains had tightened around his neck. Cold steel, the mark of a slave. 

Daeron shuddered, accepting the cloak that was wrapped around his shoulders gently. Tugging him towards the silk lounging seat that he had leapt up from at the mere mention of Viserys. He never noticed it, nor the second blanket that was wrapped tightly around the cloak. His eyes were squeezed shut as the bitter tears slipped across pale flesh. 

“No.” He clutched at the fur blanket, nuzzling into it desperately. A warmth from the bruises that even if small, remained. 

“Papa?” Asked Tyson, tugging at his father’s top. A frown pressed against his pink lips. “What’s wrong with Ron?” 

Alysanne shook her head, clasping Tyson’s hand in her own. Gazing at Missandei who fussed over the barely conscious boy, she could not blame her for it. As Missi had a kind heart. 

“Tyson, what do you know of Dae’s past?”

“Nothing much,” shrugged the boy. 

“I think… his past is finally catching up with him. He’s never had time to grieve. Not by himself. Not to what was done to him. What that  _ monster  _ did. He’ll be… I don’t know.” 

And she didn’t know. As Daeron Targaryen curled up with the blankets and cloak. Eyes shut and barely breathing, Alysanne could only hope that her friend would see the light once more. His pale sickly cheeks that looked almost to be feverish didn’t speak off the matter in pleasant light. But Alys had spent most of her life breathing and praying for hope. This was nothing new, but Daeron had more than her that would miss him this time. And she hoped it made all the difference. For it had too. 

“Daeron never cried when we were beaten. He only let me cry. His grief, I believe, in my own mind was nothing compared to mine. He has always been far too kind for his own good…” 


End file.
